The Sweetness of Revenge
by The QAS
Summary: Nearly two years after the tour, Mike Teavee receives a strange phone call from Veruca Salt. She has a plan to get back at Wonka, but it involves returning to the dreaded factory. And when disaster strikes, the two become trapped inside! Now the only way out is to work their way through a series of challenges that seem to be designed specifically for them . . .
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the versions of Charlie/Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. If I did, I woud never give a character a name as horrible as Mike Teavee.**

**Author's Note(s): I, myself, much prefer the 1971 version of Roald Dahl's book. I still enjoyed the 2005 movie, but being a fan of classics, in my mind it could not compare to the original. However, there was something about the new(er) movie that caught my eye, I found all of the "bad" children, especially Mike Teavee's characters intriguing (I know, not weird at all!)**

**Being the devil's advocate that I am, I always had issues with the morals of CATCF. I found Wonka's character more twisted and disturbing than Norman Bates or Hannibal Lector (okay, maybe the latter is a bit of an exaggeration. I'll know when my dad finally lets me watch Silence of the Lambs.) Then, I began thinking: what if the children got revenge? It began as simple idea that I began writing in a school notebook one day when I was bored. I now have over fifty typed pages of this story on my computer and it's not even done yet! **

**Anyway, enough of my pointless tangents. Enjoy!**

**Oh, and before I forget, this chapter contains a word that I would never use in real life. I only put it in because Mike himself uses the word in the movie. I do not agree with his use of it, and find it very offensive. It is not a swear word, per say, (although several minor ones do show up in the story,) but I know that it may cause controversy. **

* * *

**F**ourteen-year-old Mike Teavee grumbled and swore to himself as he struggled to get a hold of his pencil. Nearly two years of physical therapy and nothing to show for it! At this rate, he'd never finish next week's math homework in time to watch _The Simpsons_! Why was the world so cruel? He chuckled ironically to himself, rethinking the context of that last sentence.

Mike checked his watch. It was exactly 6:23 PM. Perfect. He still had thirty-seven minutes left. That should be plenty of time to finish up. His homework was on radical equations. _Pfft, easy._ Mike had actually mastered radicals all the way back in sixth grade, while his fellow eighth graders were just grasping the concept. _Retards,_ thought Mike in disgust. If there was one thing he hated it was an idiot.

"Alright," he mumbled to himself, "four, square root five over six . . ." If he could just get a grip on his damn pencil . . .

His thought process was interrupted by his father, who shouted from downstairs, "MIKE, SOMEBODY'S CALLING YOU ON LINE 2!"

Mike groaned. The house phone was all the way across the room. _Too bad I can't use The Force to lift it,_ he thought wistfully. Mike had learned about that the hard way when he was five and had attempted to levitate a steak knife . . . the results had not been pretty.

Wearily, while clutching his desk for support, Mike forced himself up. Immediately, he felt a rush of sharp pain go down his left leg, causing him to fall back into his chair. Mike groaned, finding the agony unbearable. He should have been used to it by now, but he wasn't. Now he wished that he had done his stretches that morning like Dr. Watson had said.

Okay, so standing was out of the question. He would just have to be creative.

Mike gathered all of his strength and pushed off his desk with his feet. Since the chair had wheels, he slid more than halfway across the room. Mike was able to use his feet to shuffle himself the rest of the way.

Upon reaching the phone, Mike glanced at the caller ID. Being the child prodigy that he was, Mike had memorized the phone numbers of all his friends (granted, he didn't have many), enemies, family members, and therapists. So he was surprised when he did not recognize the number, and even more surprised when he saw where the call was from: Buckinghamshire, England. Did he know anybody in England?

The young teen glanced at the phone suspiciously. If there was one thing he learned from his trip to the chocolate factory, it was to never trust anyone: always be paranoid.

Hesitantly, Mike picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"What took you so long?" a voice demanded on the other end. It was a girl, she sounded around his age. This befuddled him even more; girls never called him. She spoke with a posh, upper class, snobby British accent.

"Who is this?" he demanded.

Even though he couldn't see her on the other end, Mike had no doubt that she was probably rolling her eyes at him. He stiffened with indignity. "Don't you remember, TV boy? I'm Veruca Salt; we met on the tour."

Oh. Now he remembered. How could he possibly _forget_? Mike still had nightmares about that place three times a week!

Yes, he knew of Veruca. The little demonic girl who had nearly been murdered by a dray of squirrels. He hadn't heard from her (or any of the other children for that matter) in nearly two years. Why was she calling him all of a sudden?

"What do you want?" he asked suspiciously. There was no way that this was just a casual hello. There had to be an ulterior motive. There was always one (especially when the said person had not contacted you for over a year).

There was a pause as if she was trying to find the right words. Veruca spoke in a sly whisper. "How would you like to get revenge?"

"Revenge?" Mike repeated, as if testing out the word on his tongue. "Revenge on whom exactly?" Although he had a feeling that he already knew the answer.

Veruca snorted obnoxiously. "Revenge on Willy Wonka, of course! Lord, you're thick. And they say you're supposed to be the smart one!"

"I am smart!"_ Certainly smarter than you, anyway. _"I bet you have no idea what a parabola is! I bet you don't know the first ten digits of pi! I bet- -"

"Enough," the British girl growled. She managed to keep her voice surprisingly calm, although there was quite an edge to it, as it shook slightly with rage. _She's probably not used to being insulted, _he reasoned. _Oh, well. Too bad for her. _If she was talking to him, she was going to have to get used to it.

"Whatever," he said, shrugging it off. "You said something about revenge. What did you mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like- -" Veruca was cut off by the sound of a woman shouting. "I'LL BE DOWN FOR DINNER IN A MINUTE, MUM!" There was a pause, and Mike was pretty sure he heard the woman ask whom she was talking to. "NOBODY!" Veruca said quickly. "UM . . . A FRIEND . . . NO, I AM NOT TALKING TO ARTHUR! I DON'T EVEN LIKE HIM ANYMORE . . . WELL, THAT WAS **LAST** YEAR!"

Mike listened to the one-sided conversation in interest and amusement. He was so engaged in the quarrel, that he was almost disappointed when Veruca returned to the phone.

"That was my mum," _I figured._ "She's been giving me a really hard time . . . um, hello? Are you still there, Mike?"

"Who is this Mike you speak of? My name is Arthur!" he said, doing his best imitation of a British accent. Oh, if only he could see her face right now. He imagined it entirely red with embarrassment.

"Oh, real mature, Mr. Tea-"

"Tea? Oh, what a _lovely _idea! Would you like to come over for a spot of tea and crumpets?"

"Shut up!" she screamed angrily. At this point, Mike was having a hysterical laughing fit. "SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! I . . . I don't even LIKE crumpets!"

"Then would you prefer a biscuit, dear?"

Veruca growled like a rabid dog. She had to use every last shred of willpower she had not to lash out at him with death threats. "Do you want to get revenge or not?" she demanded.

Mike stopped his stereotypical impression at once. Revenge,** right**. THAT'S why he was talking to her! Still, he couldn't help but wonder, "What's the catch?" he asked, instantly serious once again.

"Catch? Paranoid, often?" she asked.

"_Please_, after what I've been through, I think I'm entitled to be a little bit paranoid. Nearly being torn in half by a taffy stretcher does that to you." Mike involuntarily shuddered. He **really** hated candy. "Now, can you tell me why you actually called?"

"Okay, okay. Fine. So I figured out a way to get even with Wonka, but then I realized that . . . that . . ." her voice trailed off, and then she muttered something unintelligible.

"What was that?"

"I said I wouldn't be able to do it alone," she grumbled, annoyed, "I realized that I needed a . . . a . . ." once again she couldn't seem to bring herself to say the words.

"A computer genius?" Mike suggested, ever so modestly. "Child prodigy? Brilliant strategist? Astounding mathematician?"

"Well, that . . . but what I really needed was someone who hated Wonka as much as I did. Somebody who would do anything to get back . . ."

That made sense. She needed someone with a similar motive. But he still didn't quite understand . . . "But why me? Why not one of the others?"

"It's kind of like you said, I need somebody who's good with computers. You know, to break through security and the like . . . "

"Go on . . . "

"I still have some things to work out," she admitted, "it should be complete in a week or two."

"School's out in nine days," Mike offered, "how about we talk then?"

"Yeah, I'll send for you. Really, nine days? We've been on holiday since Tuesday."

"It could have to do with the fact that we had five snow days, and our school heater was out for nearly a week." He didn't bother mentioning that he had been the one who had broken the heater.

"Okay, bye – YES, I'M COMING, MUM!"

* * *

Mike Teavee was in love. He stared at the computer screen in wonder, or rather, the beauty that was portrayed upon it; a beauty by the name of the Galileo Wheelchair. A high tech device that could change positions, climb stairs, and even elevate him to reach high things. And to think, all this time he had been using his legs like a sucker!

After the taffy stretcher, Mike had measured an astounding seven feet, four inches. That made him more than a foot taller than the second tallest kid in his grade. He had been forced to endure months of physical therapy just to learn how to walk properly, which he was still attending weekly (in addition to the other three he was seeing for his "anger management" issues). Sure, he could walk, but the process was always slow and painful, and sometimes he needed to use a leg brace. At least it was an excuse to stay indoors playing video games on a nice day, rather than run around outside.

Still, there was **some** good that came out of it: his parents had felt so guilty about what had happened that they didn't seem to scold him for anything anymore (although, lately, they had become a more nagging). He was sure that if he approached the matter carefully, he could convince them to get him the Galileo, even if it was several thousand dollars and would have to be shipped from Israel.

Unfortunately, Mom and Dad seemed more interested in as to why a mysterious girl had called him earlier that day. Thank goodness his parents didn't know how caller ID worked, or else he'd be doomed.

"Oh, that. That was just a girl. A friend from school," the lie sounded pathetic, even to him.

Mr. Teavee's fork clattered onto his plate. "You have **friends**?" he asked.

Mike gave a snort that (he hoped) sounded indignant. _Way to be supportive, Dad! _"I have friends!" he insisted.

"Mike, that Japanese boy you play chess with online doesn't count."

"Hiroshi?"

"Yeah, him."

He shook his head. "That's not who I was referring to."

"Mike," Mr. Teavee said, "name three friends that you have other than that girl."

Mike thought hard. "Well, there's Paris Themmen, Jordan Fry, and . . . um . . ." he struggled to come up with a third name. "Roald Dahl?" he offered lamely.

His parents exchanged skeptical looks and Mike, now satisfied, returned to his own business: creating a fortress out of his mashed potatoes, mimicking his own virtual one in Minecraft.

Mike's mother cleared her throat. "We, your father and I, though that maybe you would want to actually do something with your summer . . ."

Mike paused his construction of a moat. He raised a suspicious eyebrow at his parents. He did not like where this conversation was going. "What did you do?" he joked nervously, "Sign me up for summer camp?"

Once again, his parents exchanged knowing looks and Mike's eyes widened in horror. "You didn't . . ." he buried his face in his hands. "Oh, god. You wouldn'tdare . . ."

"We thought you might want to actually do something productive this summer."

"I was going to!" he shouted, now unable to contain his rage. This was so unlike them. Sure, he had noticed that his parents had been a little less laid back about his activities the past few months, but this, this was something altogether different. Angrily, Mike slammed his fist into his potatoes, demolishing his fortress. "I had my whole summer planned out!"

"Mike," his father said gently, "you can't just spend your whole summer watching TV . . ."

"That's not all I do!" he protested, now shaking from head to toe in utter fury. "I play video games, I design websites, I . . . I . . ."

"Need to socialize. We understand how hard it's been to adjust to life since the factory, but you can't just be a recluse your whole life- -that means a shut in."

"I KNOW what it means!" he roared. "What do you think I am, a retard?" **(A/N: As I stated in the author's note above, I would never use this word myself. I find it extremely offensive and politically incorrect. But if you remember, Mike Teavee's character is not always very likable. In fact, he uses this word several times throughout the film.)**

"Michael Thaddeus," his mother warned. She must have been furious, for she never used his full name. "Didn't we agree that you should never say that word again?"

"Then don't talk me like I'm an idiot!"

"Young man," his father said sternly, "you are going to camp on the twenty-first, and that is final."

"The twenty-first?" he repeated, incredulous. "But that's the day after school ends! Then I don't get to enjoy any of my summer!"

"The school wouldn't have needed those extra days if you hadn't smashed their heater with your text book."

"Seriously? You're still going on about that? That piece of crap was, like, fifty years old and didn't work half the time. It was going to give out at any given moment. How was I supposed to know that was the central heater system in the school?" he argued. "Besides," Mike added, "Mr. Jenkins had it coming to him."

"Nobody had it 'coming to them'. It's your responsibility."

"That's it!" thundered Mike, slamming his silverware onto the table. "I'm not hungry anymore." He left the table and headed for his room.

"At least take the dog out!" his father called after him.

Mike groaned, but whistled anyway. "Mario!" he called, clapping rapidly. The giant Rottweiler bounded over towards the young teen. "Come on, let's go out, you stupid dog."

Mario was the only thing other than school that could get Mike to leave the house. The dog had been a we're-sorry-that-we-forced-you-to-go-to-a-chocolate-factory-even-though-you-hate-chocolate-and-wanted-to-sell-the-golden-ticket-and-ended-up-growing-over-two-feet-in-a-taffy-stretcher-that-almost-tore-you-in-half-causing-you-to-become-the-laughing-stock-of-all-your-peers-here's-a-puppy gift. Mike had originally gone along with the plan, in order to make his parents feel guiltier about the situation. He had wanted a pit bull in order to make him look tough, but apparently the state of Colorado had other ideas, seeing as the ownership of pit bulls was illegal in Denver. So Mike had chosen the next best thing: a Rottweiler.

Unfortunately for Mike, Mario turned out to be the complete opposite of what he had expected. The dog was happy, fun loving, clumsy, and sociable. It disgusted him.

"A quick walk around the block, that's it, **no detours,**" he told him, even though he knew the dog could not possibly understand what he was saying.

Mario cocked his head, confused. "Aroof?" he could've sworn the dog said with a question mark.

"Never mind. Let's go."

It was late out and Mike wanted to get it over with quickly. Not that the dark scared him- -no, he would never be such a pussy. What worried Mike was the thought of someone seeing him. Recently, the local bullies whom Mike had once been acquainted with had turned on him. Mike knew that he would never be able to outrun them in his current state. He tapped his foot impatiently as Mario sniffed a bush.

"Hurry up!" he ordered, tugging on the leash. But Mario was in no rush; the dog took his sweet time, sniffing every available millimeter of the bush. At times, Mike was sure that the animal purposefully annoyed him. "Come on, let's go before someone—"

"Hey, Mike!"

"—Sees us." Mike looked behind him to see who had been calling. He groaned. It was Jonathan, the captain of the high school basketball team. He was seventeen years old, having just completed his junior year, and roughly six feet tall. Still, he looked like a midget in comparison to Mike. The older boy had been trying to recruit him ever since he returned from the factory. That boy was causing him to seriously reconsider his high school options.

"Go away," he grumbled.

Jonathan ignored him. "So . . .have you thought about my offer?"

"Yes, and my answer has not changed: no. I am not interested."

"Aw, come on. Don't be like that, Teavee. The team needs you. You would be the star!"

"Listen, Jonathon," Mike said with exaggerated patience, "I can hardly walk, let alone run. I would be horrible."

"You don't have to!" he insisted. "We'd take care of everything. The entire game, you could just be standing near the other teams hoop, and whenever we would pass you the ball, you'd just drop it in. It's an infallible plan, and everybody comes out a winner- -well, I mean, other than the team we would be playing against, but you know what I mean . . ."

Had it be anyone else but Jonathan, Mike would have probably beaten them up, or at least use some pretty creative death threats. But Mike was smarter than that. Jonathon was not a person to make enemies with. In addition to being a star athlete, Jonathan was also on student council and a model student. All of the younger kids looked up to him. Mike would be a freshman the following year, and it was always good to have powerful allies, Jonathon being one of the top choices available. So for the time being, he would have to endure the boy's annoying attempts to get him to join the team.

"Jonathan, listen to me: I. Hate. Sports." He was careful to emphasize each word, to make sure that the message stuck. "I have no intention of ever joining the basketball team. End of story."

"But—"

"I said end of story. We're done."

This was how most of there conversations went. Jonathan gave Mike a sad smile, patted Mario on the head, and told him to just "think about it", before walking away. Mike knew that he would bring up the subject the next time they met. And the next time. And the next . . ..

Looking down at Mario, Mike could swear that the dog was smirking at him. How a Rottweiler could smirk? He had no idea, but Mario managed to pull it off.

"Alright, you had your fun. Let's go inside."

* * *

The next day, much to Mike's relief, was Saturday. He slept in until twelve, and after his morning stretches (he might as well have been limp without them,) took his sweet time taking a shower and getting dressed. Next, came the most important part of the morning: his hair. Mike must have spent ten to twenty minutes every day trying to get it to stick up just right in the front. It was his signature look.

Mike debated going downstairs for breakfast, but decided that he would rather spend the morning playing video games, then face his parents after the previous night's incident.

Mike had beaten most of his old games, and he was able to pass almost all of his new ones with ease. When people asked him how he did it, he would say it was just like a mathematical equation. Every level followed a specific pattern that had to be memorized, and then beaten. Mike refused to say anything more. Anyone who was too stupid to figure out the code by himself didn't deserve to pass anyway, he had reasoned. It was all patterns. If only real people were so easy to decode.

As he played, Mike felt his mind begin to wander. He thought of Veruca. What was that girl's plan? And more importantly, where did he come into it? Revenge on Wonka would be nice, but Mike knew that it wouldn't be easy. He had underestimated the candy maker once before, and would never make that mistake again.

Mike killed off a zombie in his game.

The young boy wrinkled his nose at the thought of the twisted chocolatier. There was no one in the world that he would rather destroy. He acted like a child, despite the fact that he was a full-grown adult. The man seemed to live in his own fantasy world, where he could make anything happen that he wanted.

"Die, already!" he shouted at the screen.

At times, Mike wondered how Willy Wonka managed to avoid arrest. Surely, a health inspector must have entered the factory at some point. Was he the only one who realized just how messed up that place was? Everything in that building defied all logic and possibility. And it was all for . . . _candy_! Why would anyone in the world devote his life to something so incredibly pointless?

"Candy doesn't have to have a point, that's why it's candy," he remembered the other boy, Charlie, telling him.

"To hell with candy!" shouted Mike, blasting his character's ray gun, disintegrating his opponent.

How could Wonka even get away with what he did? The man had labored slaves (and illegal immigrants), tortured children, created an unlicensed flying device that surpassed the city's limits, not to mention handing an entire factory over to an eleven-year-old. How could the courts possibly miss that?

Mike quickly dodged a spear that nearly hit his avatar.

Yes. Vengeance on the dreaded chocolate maker would be most satisfying, but it would be difficult. He would have to beat Wonka at his own game, always staying a step ahead. With his intelligence and Veruca's wealth, they could not be beaten.

Soon, a plan began to formulate in the young mastermind's head. It would be so perfect, so clever, and so ingenious that no one would ever see it coming.

Mike killed off the boss battle and proceeded to the next level.

* * *

**Wow, over 4,000 words! I'm so proud of myself! **

**In the next chapter, Mike gets into a fight with his psychologist and Veruca finally shows up!**

**Please review and let me know what you think. Reviews will be replied to in the next chapter. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, just no flame please! **


	2. Chapter 2

**x_Silent_Dawn_x (sorry, the website doesn't let me do really long words for some reason: I'm so glad you think they're in character. I've been working on this plot for months and I've ben told by my friends/family that it is some of my best work yet. **

**M****ystic Defiance: Thank you for reviewing. I'm happy you like it!**

**Thank you to everyone who alerted/favorited. I will try my best not to disappoint you. **

**This next chapter is a bit shorter. I will point out once again that from a moral standpoint, I do not agree with Mike Teavee for the most part. I do not intend to make him a role model of any sort, so please don't flame me for his thoughtless stereotyping in this chapter.**

* * *

**"I** can hardly see how this is necessary," Mike protested from the passenger seat of his mom's car. "I've already seen, like, four therapists, and none of them have helped me at all."

"You can nag all you want, Mike, you are not getting out of this so easily. Dr. Monroe is a specialist in child psychology, one of the best in the state."

Mike groaned loudly, and pressed his face against the window. Why didn't she get it? Was his mother really so stupid that she couldn't see that her son was making absolutely no progress in his behavior? Or perhaps she was just in denial, constantly convincing herself that this time would be different. Mike wasn't sure which possibility infuriated him more.

Over the course of the past few years, Mike had visited several psychologists, psychiatrists, and general therapists. Each time he went home with a new diagnosis to add to an ever-growing list: Conduct Disorder, ADHD, Posttraumatic Stress Disorder, etc. None of the diagnoses appeared to be related to each other in any way, other than the fact that they were all disorders. Mike concluded that either the psychologists were terrible, or there was something seriously wrong with him.

But what Mike hated most of all was seeing the other kids who needed "special help". He always ended up in the waiting room with some retard or psychopath that always tried to talk to him. There was nothing Mike hated more.

Not that he had anything against the disabled; Mike just preferred not to associate with them. He didn't belong in a place with cutters and people with Down syndrome. He was perfectly functional in society! Okay, fine, so maybe he had slight anger management issues, and poor impulse control- -but that didn't mean that he needed to see a new shrink every week.

He voiced his opinions to his mother, just like he always did when they went to a new therapist. She would usually give him so unsatisfying answer about how she and his father were "concerned" about him.

This time, however, the approach was different.

As first, Mrs. Teavee said nothing. She bit her lower lip like she always did when in deep thought. Finally, she said, "You know, you talk in your sleep?"

Mike blinked. This was not the reaction he had been expecting. It took him a couple of seconds to recover. "I do?"

She nodded, frowning rather pitifully.

"What . . . what do I say?" he prompted.

His mom looked away, refusing to meet her son's eyes. "It varies. Usually something about chocolate or stretching."

"Well, I think we all know where that's from."

She nodded.

Mike paused. Then, a thought occurred. "Can we file a law suit against Wonka for giving me sleep disorders?"

Mrs. Teavee actually laughed. "Probably not. Besides, suing takes a lot of time and money, and Wonka can probably afford the best lawyers." She tried to keep her tone light-hearted, but it cracked slightly at the end.

Mike nodded. It was true. Suing him was almost entirely out of the question. Revenge would have to be done carefully, with elaborate planning.

For about the fiftieth time since the call, Mike wondered what exactly Veruca had in mind, and what she expected him to do. They would be an odd pair, the two of them. Veruca was Mike's polar opposite in many ways: he was raised with parents who wanted him to be independent; she was pampered like a Chihuahua. He was clever and cunning, she was ignorant and dim-witted. He was willing to work (or at least cheat intelligently,) to get what he wanted, she was used to having everything done for her. Yes. An interesting pair indeed.

"Mike," his mother said, waking him up from his daydream. From the edge to her voice, he was pretty sure that she had been calling his name several times, with no response.

"What?"

"We're here."

Mike looked. Sure enough, they were standing in front of a large, gray building. He stepped out of the car, and followed his mom inside.

"Now, are you sure, that I can leave you alone in the waiting room?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Don't worry about me, Mom. I'm not a child."

Mrs. Teavee's bottom lip stuck out in a pout, as she seemed to be considering this. Finally, she nodded and gave him a quick kiss before exiting through the door.

Mike sighed, relieved to have gotten rid of her. He studied his surroundings. It was a typical doctor waiting room. There were a few chairs, with magazines scattered about. There were also a few toys, but the kind that were meant for infants and toddlers. It always irritated him to know that he was in a room meant for little children.

There were only two other people in the room. There was a woman at a desk, probably a secretary, tying away on her computer. There was also a little girl sitting in the far corner with her entire face in a book, she had not seemed to acknowledge his presence at all. Mike wondered what her problem was.

Not particularly interested in socializing, Mike slumped into one of the chairs and pulled out his phone. For several minutes, nobody said a word. The only sounds were the tapping of the keyboard and the slight ruffle of book pages.

A head peaked through the door. "Michael Teavee?" she asked.

Mike grunted in response, reluctantly making his way over. The woman smiled warmly at him, which Mike returned with a frown. He couldn't stand people who always happy, finding the very thought revolting.

The lady led him into a medium-sized room that he guessed was her office. Almost everything in the room made him want to vomit. The colorful curtains, the kitten calendar on the wall, the shelves littered with toys and knick-knacks. Mike had half a mind to bolt out the door the moment he stepped inside.

"Have a seat, Mike. Your mother says you like to be called Mike."

He sat, saying nothing. _This was a huge waste of time, _he thought, _and money._

Dr. Monroe sat opposite him. She folded her legs and put a ridiculous smile on her face. "So, how are you doing today, Mike?"

He shrugged.

"Are you looking forward to summer vacation?" she tried again.

Another shrug.

"That's a cool shirt," she said.

Mike looked down at his skull T-shirt. He had been fortunate enough to have it stretch with him in the taffy puller. It was quite apparent that she couldn't care less about his clothing, so he did not feel obligated to answer her.

"Mike, look at me please."

Mike glared at her, trying his best to look intimidating.

"My name is Dr. Monroe. Do you know why you're here?"

"Because my parents think that visiting a shrink will solve all of my problems," he replied dryly, making no effort at hiding the annoyance in his voice. Mike didn't care if he sounded disrespectful.

"No. You are here because your parents are worried about you."

Mike rolled his eyes. He had been through this drill before. She was trying to guilt him into talking about his feelings. Well, that wasn't going to work. He was too good at this game to fall into her trap. He began to fidget with a loose thread on his shirt.

"Michael—sorry, Mike. Your mother tells me that you've been isolated from your peer groups. Do you want to tell me more about that?"

_Seriously, lady? You don't tell kids that!_ "No," he stated plainly.

"Oh. Well, is there **anything** you would like to tell me?"

"No."

Dr. Monroe leaned forward a bit. She examined him as if he were a lab rat trapped under glass. "Do you want me to tell your mother that you're being uncooperative?" she pressured.

Mike actually audibly snorted at this. _Was that supposed to be a threat? _If so, the lady brought a whole new meaning to the word pathetic. "I don't care."

"Really?" she said slyly, "are you sure?" He nodded, although a bit uncertainly. "What if I were to tell you that your mother threatened to take away your video games, cell phone, and laptop for a week if you were disrespectful?"

Okay, so Monroe was smarter than she looked. Mike wasn't sure she was being serious or not, but was not willing to risk it. "Fine," he surrendered. "So, what do you want to talk about?"

"Well . . . how's school?"

"What kind of a question is that? School is . . . school. There's nothing to say about it."

"How are your grades?"

"I'm the top of the class," he said arrogantly.

"Are you really? How impressive," she replied, once again, smiling grotesquely. Mike shuddered.

"Can I go now?"

The answer had been no. Then poor Mike had been forced to endure an hour more of therapy with an unnaturally happy lady who forced him to play stupid games, talking about his feelings, and do "social thinking". When Mrs. Teavee returned at the end of the session, Mike had never been happier to see his mother's face.

When they returned home, Mike locked himself in his room and refused to come out for the rest of the day.

* * *

The next week and a half passed without much incident. The last few days of school were mainly end-of-year parties and locker clean-outs. Mike spent any spare time at home, in his room, putting more and more detail into his revenge plan.

Before he knew it, the twentieth of June came along, and the year ended at Denver Middle School. For Mike and his fellow eighth graders, this meant the end of middle school forever. Next year, they would be walking through a different pair of doors as they began a whole new chapter in their lives: high school. They couldn't exactly say they were going to miss the old school, though. And in the meantime, Mike had problems of his own: he was going to need some way to get out of summer camp. The question was, how?

Mike tried everything. He began by calmly reasoning with his parents, before needing to resort to more extreme tactics. Let it not be said that he never suffered. Mike tried to make them feel guilty, which turned out to be an overused gimmick. Soon he was forced to abandon all dignity and make feeble promises to eat all of his broccoli (what? Just because he didn't like candy didn't mean that he was a health-freak) and not get into fights at school. But nothing worked, and on the twenty-first, Mike found himself packing for four weeks of pointless outdoor activity.

The young teen sat miserably on the front steps of his house, waiting for the bus to take him to his prison. He sat there playing on his Gameboy with one hand, and petting Mario with the other when the limo pulled up into his driveway.

Mike sighed and reached for his bag . . .

. . . Wait, _limo_? That couldn't be right.

"I'll send for you," Veruca had said to him. What if she really did mean send for him? Although the thought didn't really occur to him before, it certainly made sense. Revenge would be much easier to do if they were on the same continent.

Mike brought the dog inside. His father had already left for work that morning and with any luck his mother was still sleeping. He'd just send her a text and -

"MIKE!" he heard Mrs. Teavee call from upstairs, "WHAT'S THAT NOISE?"

"IT'S THE BUS, MOM," he replied. Mike's heart was beating heavily. He was actually going to get away with this.

"THE BUS?" she repeated. "IT'S AWFULLY EARLY . . ."

"I KNOW. BUT IT'S HERE. I'M GOING NOW, OKAY? I'M OFF TO THE STUPID CAMP, BYE!" he headed for the door, reached for the handle and—

"DO YOU WANT ME TO WALK YOU TO THE BUS?"

Mike cringed. "NO!" he said, a little too quickly. "THAT'S OKAY. SEE YA!"

" . . .ALRIGHT. I LOVE YOU."

Once again, he cringed, but this time for a very different reason.

"Mr. Teavee?" the driver inquired. He, too, spoke with a posh British accent. Mike nodded and he opened the door for him.

Mike, without so much as a thank you, practically flung himself into the car, banging his head in the process. He had to hunch over in the limousine, due to his height. Still, he was amazed by the inside. For a car, it was extremely spacious, complete with cup holders, Champaign glasses, and even a TV. Mike smiled. He was going to like this.

"So, where's Veruca?" he asked.

"She is at home."

"Home?" he repeated, confused. "You mean, like, in England?"

"Precisely. I was given explicit instructions to bring you to her. We are now on our way to a private landing base where we will board her private jet."

Unable to contain his excitement, Mike gasped loudly. _A private jet?_ Wow, that girl was even richer than he suspected. Yet again, he didn't know why that surprised him. Any child that owned a number of mink coats had to be well off.

"This is so much better than camp!" he breathed.

"What was that?" asked the chauffer.

"Nothing."

* * *

As it turned out, Veruca herself did not own the jet, but rather it belonged to her whole family. Oh, and apparently the chauffer could also fly a plane. Still, it was pretty cool. He could hardly wait until he got back home to brag to everyone that he'd been in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory and a private jet on two separate occasions!

The ride, even in a jet, was several hours long, so Mike entertained himself by taking apart his cell phone and putting it back together. His record time was just over two minutes. Within less than an hour he was sick of that. Looking for something to do, Mike remembered the chauffer/pilot guy telling him that there was a collection of DVD's in the corner that could be put into the TV.

The movies were categorized by genre, and then in alphabetical order. Figures, Mr. Salt would be a neat freak. Mike skipped right past comedy and romance, skimmed over mystery and adventure, and finally stopped at horror. Perfect.

He examined his choices. There weren't too many of them. He supposed the Salts weren't exactly a horror movie type family. Most of them he had already seen, such as _Poltergeist_, _The Omen_, and _The Ring_. Mike eventually settled on an old favorite, _Psycho_. He must have seen that film at least fifty times—in fact, it was seeing it so often that likely saved his life.

After being shrunk, Mike distinctly remembered being flipped through a series of iconic television moments while the Oompa Loompas sang terrible 80s music in the background. One of those clips had been from _Psycho_. Had he not known the exact moment the knife was going to come out . . . well, he didn't want to consider the alternative.

Mike looked down at the disc in his hands. On second thought, maybe he'd watch something else . . .

* * *

The Salt mansion was even bigger than he had expected. It was a large, Victorian Age building, with ornate carvings and bright colors at every available inch of spare room that wasn't filled with antique furniture. It was beautiful, but in a creepy sort of way. Mike had a feeling that if he so much as touched anything, it would shatter.

The family's butler led him through several grand hallways that had so many twists and turns that he was sure he'd never be able to find his way back alone. Eventually, (after several "don't touch that, it's priceless" and "that sofa is just for decoration, not for sitting on"s) they reached a door. Unlike all of the other doors in the corridor, that were white, this one was pink.

"Hmm . . . I wonder whose room this is," he muttered sarcastically.

The butler knocked on the door. "Miss Veruca, your . . . " he gave Mike a strange look, " . . . _friend_ is here."

"Excellent," came the voice from inside, "send him in at once."

When Mike entered the room, he almost fainted. The bedroom was impressive in size, about as big as the Teavee's family room and kitchen combined. The place was covered in flowery wallpaper that made him feel dizzy just looking at it.

Veruca was on her queen-sized canopy bed, wedged between two mountains of stuffed animals. She was lying on her stomach, propped up by an elbow while her other hand was texting vigorously. At the foot of her bed, a large Standard Poodle lay, licking its paws like a cat.

"Veruca," the butler scolded in a disapproving tone, "that's no way for a young lady to sit."

"I'm wearing leggings!" she protested.

"I am not denying that. It's just that your mother said that she didn't want you sitting like th- -"

Veruca waved her hand at him dismissively. Mike actually felt a pang of pity for the poor man. There was not enough money in the world that would make catering to that little girl's every need worthwhile.

The butler sighed, and exited the room.

"So, um, V- -"

She quickly shushed him. "Just sit down somewhere," Veruca said. It sounded more like an order than a suggestion. "I will only be a minute."

Twenty minutes later, Veruca put away her phone. "So," she said jokingly, "have you gone through a growth spurt?"

* * *

**YAY! Another chapter done. **

**Please review and tell me what you think. The more reviews, the faster I update.**


	3. Chapter 3

**. . . And now the fun really starts!**

**To my lovely reviewers, reading what you write always makes my day:**

**Mystic Defiance: Thanks for reviewing. **

**x_Silent_Dawn_x: Thank you, I'm so glad you like it. I've worked really guard on this story and have tried to make it as believable as possible (well, not "believable", so to speak, considering it involves a magic chocolate factory, but you know what I mean . . . )**

**Fruktus_1997: Thank you, I'll try.**

**This Chapter contains a scene from my other CATCF fanfic, Game Over.**

* * *

**M**ike growled. He absolutely hated it when people made fun of his height. "Oh, ha ha. Forgive me if I don't find the aftermath of a torture to device to be so amusing," he said darkly.

Veruca looked almost exactly the same as she did at the factory: curly, dark brown, shoulder length hair, fair skin, and bright blue eyes. The clothes she wore made her look as if she had just stepped out of a fashion magazine. She wore a fuzzy pink top and a mini skirt with opaque leggings.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she demanded.

Mike noticed that he had been unintentionally staring at her. "Um, no reason. So . . . what exactly is your plan?"

She said, "One time a dead rat got caught in Daddy's nut processor. Needless to say, the nuts tasted terrible, and we lost a lot of business."

Mike looked at her with a combination of disgust and confusion. Mostly confusion. "And you're telling me this because . . . ?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't you see? If one blasted rodent could make my father have to shut down his factory for weeks, imagine what we could do to Wonka."

Okay, now he understood. Veruca's father owned a factory, she probably knew even more about food processing than he did. The plan was clever, at least for her. Intelligence was to be admired after all, even if it could not possibly compare to his own. But there was one problem . . . "How do we get the rats into the factory?"

"It doesn't need to be rats," she said, "it could be anything that would make the candy taste terrible- -"

Mike snorted. "A little too late for that. His candy is already awful, but that hasn't stopped people yet." This earned him another glare from the snobby British girl, which he gladly ignored. "Still, you may be on to something. I've been working on a twenty-four hour food poisoning. If we could mess up the production code of Wonka's candies, then I could probably figure out how to get it in."

"You could do that?" Veruca asked, unable to hide the fact that she was impressed.

"Yep. If this works, it could cause some serious financial damage, if not shut Wonka down completely."

Veruca grinned. "I love it!"

The pair worked endlessly for the rest of the day. Mike on his poison, Veruca on her hair. It was an intense afternoon.

At dinner, Veruca invited her guest down to the dinning room.

"Daddy's having some colleagues over from work. Fellow CEOs," she explained, "So, try not to . . . you know. Be yourself."

"Thanks."

"Oh, and one more thing," Veruca said as they headed down the spiral staircase to the main floor.

"What's that?"

"Veruca!" Mrs. Salt exclaimed upon seeing her daughter. She, her husband, and several other men, were in some sort of fancy sitting room, sipping tea. "We were just about you. How are you, my dear?" Her expression soon changed from mirthful to troubled, although she tried not to show it. "And who's that with you?"

It was then Mike realized what else Veruca had left out: her parents didn't know he was coming. _Just be cool,_ he told himself. _You're Mike Teavee, you can handle anything._

"Mummy, Daddy," Veruca proposed, "you remember Mike." She was met with blank stares, and the young teen sighed dramatically. "Mike _Teavee_? From Wonka's?"

"Yes. Yes, of course," Henry Salt cleared his throat and stuck out his hand somewhat awkwardly, "How do you do, Mike? Forgive me, please, it's just that we weren't expecting outside company."

Mike reluctantly shook the hand, and put on a big, fake smile. "It's good to see you again, Sir. I apologize for my entrance, I was under the impression that I was invited."

Henry and his wife appeared confused. The guests looked rather uncomfortable.

Mike and Veruca pretended to be entirely oblivious to the tension in the room, and just smiled innocently at the Salts.

"So, is it alright if he stays?" Veruca asked, bouncing up and down on her toes. The girl's voice was courteous enough, but there was a look in her eyes that said otherwise.

Mr. and Mrs. Salt were trapped. Their daughter was on the edge of a tantrum, which would look terrible in front of their visitors. Mr. Salt sighed. "Of course, Dear," he said.

Veruca, now calm once again, beamed angelically. "Excellent," she said, satisfied. "Let's eat."

Normally at his own house, Mike would eat meals alone. He would usually put off a family dinner by claiming he had too much homework, when in reality he was really trying to beat one of his video games, or was just minutes away from cracking a code to hack into someone's computer. He would normally finish around ten, heat up a piece of toast, and go to sleep. And on the rare occasion that his family would eat together, Mike would typically eat just enough food to qualify as a "meal" and then leave the table without a word. In fact, the entire idea of discussing your day at the dinner table was unheard of in the Teavee household until that summer. Mike was pretty sure his mother had gotten the idea from some stupid parenting magazine.

At the Salt's, dinner was a completely different story. Apparently it was customary to stay at the table and engage in small talk. _Weirdoes_.

"So, Mike," said one of the CEOs, he had an accent that the American couldn't quite place, but he knew it wasn't British. "I hear that you are interested in computers."

Mike shrugged, picking at his food. It was some sort of fancy meat with a weird sauce. Mike couldn't tell if it was roast, lamb, veal or something else.

"You know, I work with computers quite a lot myself," continued the man. "I run EUnet Communications Services BV. Have you heard of it?" The man spoke to him slowly, as if he were an idiot.

Of course Mike had heard of it. A hacker needs to know his computers after all. Not wanting to miss a chance to show off his intelligence, he replied, "EUnet is Europe's leading internet company."

The man gave Mike a sideways look. It was obvious that he had not expected him to know what it was.

"Forgive me, Sir," Mike said, "but if you work at a computer company, then why aren't you having dinner with the CEOs of _Fujitsu Siemens _or _Apple _or _Phillips Electronics_? Why are you having a business meeting with someone who owns a nut factory?" he tried his best to sound curious and naïve.

The man laughed and ruffled Mike's hair (of course, he had to reach up to do so . . .). Mike scowled. Not being taken seriously by adults was bad enough, but he couldn't stand it when somebody messed up his hair. "You are a clever one, aren't you? Well, I will let you in on a little secret. Sometimes grown-ups who work at companies have meetings about . . . business strategies."

_Like scamming customers and underpaying employees,_ Mike thought to himself. But the little genius was far too smart to voice this out loud.

"So, Mike how's school?" Mr. Salt inquired.

Forgetting his manners, and not being one to miss a chance to gloat, he said, "I just finished eighth grade. I have the highest marks in all of my classes,"_ except for P.E_., he added silently.

"What are your college plans?"

To the average fourteen-year-old, this would have been a horrible question, seeing as most children do not even begin to think about college until they are sixteen or so, and even then, it is a sensitive topic. The reason why Mr. Salt had asked was done partially to scare him, partially to examine the boy to see if he was "worthy" for his daughter.

Mike's voice never wavered as he answered calmly, "I'm looking at Princeton or MIT."

Mr. Salt nodded, impressed. He didn't know much about American colleges, but he knew that both of those schools were expensive, IV league colleges. "Those are hard schools to get into." Mike shrugged. "Well, as a graduate from Cambridge University, I wish you luck."

"Veruca's looking at universities as well," Mrs. Salt added, earning an incredulous look from her daughter. "We're thinking about Aylesbury."

"Mu-MMY," Veruca whined, "I'm only thirteen! I don't have to think about college for, like, five more years!" She stuck out her lower lip in a pout.

Teavee smirked. "You can never start looking too early," he said. Veruca kicked him from underneath the table.

* * *

The Salts insisted that Mike receive his own room to sleep in, and he was given a grand guestroom. Personally, Mike didn't care too much about the size, as long as there was enough room for him to charge his electronics and set up his chemistry set.

The only downside to the room was the fact that there was a large Bengal cat that refused to leave the bed. Every time Mike drew near to the animal, it would arch over and hiss at him viciously. Eventually, Mike was forced to surrender the lower half of the bed, deciding that there was enough room for both of them.

* * *

As it turned out, Mike didn't get much sleep that night, anyway. After surfing the web for an hour, he worked tirelessly on his food poison until about two in the morning. After that he and his computer engaged in an intense game of virtual chess. By the time he had finally decided to turn in, the first signs of daylight had already begun to peak through the curtains.

Mike woke up (after a remarkable nightmare-less eight hours) to see Veruca sitting at the foot of his bed, stroking the cat. "It's about time," she muttered, throwing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt at him. "Get dressed," she ordered. "I want to start work immediately."

"I thought you had a dog," he said somewhat thickly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"I have three dogs, two parakeets, a green parrot, three canaries, two ponies, five rabbits, and four cats." (Author's note: In the span of two year, two rabbits died, and she received another pony, dog, and a bunny.)

Mike smirked. "Do you have any squirrels?" he asked slyly.

Whatever reaction he had been expecting (most likely mild annoyance) from Veruca, he did not receive. She glared at him for about fifteen seconds. Then, without warning, Veruca grabbed her handbag and began smacking him with it!

"Don't." Smack. "Ever." Smack. "Mention." Smack. "Those." Smack. "Repulsive." Smack. "Beasts." Smack. "In." Smack. "Front." Smack. "Of." Smack. "Me." Smack. "Ever." Smack. "Again!" She paused, and then added another smack for good measure.

Mike rubbed his injuries tenderly. "What the hell do you keep in there?" he shouted, having felt as if he'd been hit with rocks.

"My make-up and weekly allowance," she replied. "Don't ever cross me again, or I will not be so gentle. Now get dressed. I want the poison done by noon."

"Who put you in charge?" he demanded.

Veruca shot him a look so fierce it would have made Lord Voldemort cower under his bed with a teddy bear. "Do you really want to cross? Surely you aren't that stupid," she shoved the clothes at him. "Get dressed," Veruca ordered. She got up and walked out the door.

Mike groaned. _Why did I ever agree to this? _He wondered miserably.

Knowing it was no use pitying himself, Mike got dressed, and began to work immediately. He made significant on the poison, and then began to do further research.

Mike debated the best way to go about doing it. He could simply Google "Willy Wonka", but he doubted that he would learn anything new. Wonka didn't strike him as the type to tweet whatever he was doing online- -the man was even more antisocial than he was.

The computer geek tapped his (abnormally thin) fingers. Wonka would never put valuable information online. The man may have been mad, but he was not stupid, Mike would give him that much credit.

He paused again, considering his actions. Then suddenly, a thought occurred to him. Mike didn't know why he hadn't thought of this before. It was so freakin' obvious!

He clicked the search box and typed in the name. It was a name he had tried not to think of for nearly two years. A name he slowly grew to despise almost as much as the crazed chocolatier himself.

Mike grinned in satisfaction as the screen announced that there were over a million results for "Charlie Bucket". He clicked the most recent one.

The website showed a newspaper clipping from the previous week. Bucket had been interviewed. It showed a picture of him, standing beside his mother, looking like the happiest kid in the world. Mike felt a pang of jealousy. It wasn't fair that he should get all of the fame and glory, when it had only been luck that had gotten him where he was. Mike had been the only kid of the five who had actually earned his ticket. Surely that meant that he deserved the prize.

Mike pushed away his feelings and glanced at the article. Not particularly interested in reading so early in the morning, he scrolled down to the bottom of the page. As he predicted, there was a video link to _YouTube_. Mike clicked on it, without hesitation.

As the video loaded, Mike's thoughts returned to the contest. He had originally wanted to sell the ticket in order to buy new video games, but Mike's parents wouldn't allow it. So in a way, his disgusting fate was all their fault. He was always sure to remind them of this whenever they tried to force him into doing something that he hated. Although as of that summer, the technique seemed to wear out.

The video completed its loading, and Mike pressed play. On the screen, Charlie Bucket was grinning broadly as he answered the interviewers questions, with several microphones pointed at his face and cameras flashing. He wore a blue button-down shirt that appeared quite expensive. _Definitely a step up from the hideous sweater he wore on the tour. _Mike cringed. He was beginning to sound like his mother.

Mike turned up the volume, he did not want to miss anything, for he knew that even the most insignificant detail could make all the difference.

"So how's business going?" one reporter asked.

"What's it like to work with Willy Wonka?" said another.

"Um . . . well, Wonka himself is great. I've always admired him and getting to work with the man himself is a dream come true! Sometimes his methods may seem a bit . . . odd," Mike snorted, "but in the end, he always knows what he's doing. And to address the first question, business is going great. Mr. Wonka and I have an endless supply of fresh ideas, and you guys can expect several new candies in the months to come. Yes. . . you in the red hat," he addressed one of the reporters.

"Billy Collins, Sir, of the _Chicago Tribune_. Rumor has it that before you won the factory, your family barely had enough to live by. What made you think that you stood a chance against the other four children? Why do you think Wonka chose you?"

"Well . . . to be quite honest, Mr. Collins, I was more excited about the tour itself than the grand prize at the end. I suppose Wonka wanted a child that was . . . pure of heart, so to say, to receive the factory. Don't get me wrong, I'm far from perfect. It's just that the other children had issues of their own."

"Could you tell us more about that?"

"Err. . .I'm not really comfortable with speaking badly about the other kids. A lot of them were raised in bad homes with messed up families. Me- -my family and I, have always been extremely close, and I think that they really brought out the best in me and raised me to be who I am today."

"That's a lie!" Mike could not help but say out loud, even though he knew he couldn't hear him. Sure, his parents may not have been very engaged with him all the time- -that was the way he liked it. It taught Mike to be tough, and to think for himself. It didn't mean they didn't love him.

The cat hissed angrily, annoyed to have his mid-morning nap disrupted.

"Millions of kids all over the world would give anything to be in your place. How does that make you feel?"

"It's a bit overwhelming, really. I'm not sure what to say or think."

"Is there anything that you would like to say to those children? Any advice that you would like to give them?"

"Um . . .yeah. Always follow your dreams, work hard, and keep your family close. Remember that family is more important than anything."

"Well said," the reporter agreed, "lastly, is there anything in particular that Wonka fans can look forward to? Any new products?"

"Like I said, Mr. Wonka and I have loads of ideas, we just need some time to sort them out," he chuckled. "Uh . . . we actually have tons of new products coming out, and we'll have a lot more time now because its summer. My boss doesn't really want me to say specifics- - something about spies. But . . . yeah. The two of us are actually going on a trip to Brazil next week in search of this new type of nut that was recently discovered there."

Mike paused the video. That was just what he needed. He knew it would just be a matter of time before the kid would slip up and give something away. With Wonka and Bucket out of the picture, revenge would be even easier to carry out. It would be like taking candy from an Oompa Loompa.

He hated Oompa Loompas almost as much as Wonka himself. The repulsive little creatures were despicable in every way. Their tiny bodies. Their retarded songs. Their idiotic loyalty to Wonka. . .

Mike felt a chill rush down his spine, almost as if he was being watched . . . no, that was impossible. Nobody was in the room other than the stupid cat. So why was he shaking from head to toe?

Mike turned around just in case. Sure enough, the only other living thing in the room was the Bengal.

"Stupid paranoia," he mumbled. He rolled his eyes at no one, feeling rather foolish. Whenever he was in a foreign place, nearly everything Mike saw reminded him of the incident. In fact, he could no longer go near public swimming pools because of the goggles people would wear- - sometimes even sunglasses creeped him out. Although as of that year, the symptoms had seemed to die down quite a bit (perhaps it was because he rarely left the house).

The doctor, of course, had not given him any useful information about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, so the then-twelve-year-old had to look it up when he got home. Mike did not like the results. Symptoms of PTSD included nightmares, anxiety, sweating, phobias, irritability, and frequent flashbacks of the incident that caused the disorder. As first, Mike refused to believe that he had it. After all, he didn't get flashbacks whenever he saw a television set. Although he hadn't watched _Psycho_ since. . .

Trying his best to ignore the disturbance, Mike attempted to return to his work. But the longer he worked, the harder he found it to pay attention. He kept hearing the voices of the Oompa Loompas. He could hear their mocking rhyme as he typed away on his keyboard.

As promised, Veruca returned to him at noon. "Come on," she ordered, "it's lunchtime."

He nodded and followed her down to the main floor. As they walked, Veruca said, "Did you get anything done?"

"I found out lots!"

"Pipe down, will you? Do you want the whole bloody world to hear?" she demanded.

Mike shrugged, half-apologized, and continued. "Wonka's going to be on vacation in Brazil. It'll be the perfect time to carry out our plan." _Almost_ too _perfect,_ said a voice in the back of Mike's head. He ignored it.

"Really?" Veruca's eyes lit up. "How did you find out?"

"Bucket announced it to the whole world during an interview. He's such an idiot!"

Veruca nodded in agreement. "He's mental if he thinks nobody's going to take advantage of him. That boy is far too trusting for his own good. Ah, here we are," she said, reaching the door.

"This isn't where we ate last night."

"Of course not, you dudder head. That was supper. Why would we have lunch and dinner in the same room? I mean, unless Mum and Dad had, like, the Prime Minister over or something." Veruca stepped into the kitchen.

_What's a dudder head?_ Mike wondered, following her inside.

The cook served soup and some sort of meat pie., which Mike picked at, not feeling particularly hungry.

"Veruca!" the cook reprimanded, "What are you doing?"

"I'm _eating!"_ she replied rudely.

"Don't slouch, you have company. And what are you doing with your hair? It's all over the place? Do you want your hair to get into your soup?"

Veruca scowled. She looked at Mike and rolled her eyes at the cook. Then, she added a cuckoo sign for effect. "I'm **fine**," she insisted, annoyed. "Don't talk to me like I'm two-years-old!"

The cook, however, would take none of it. The woman came over with a scrunchy in hand, and pulled Veruca's hair back, despite the young girl's protests.

"Tell her it's not fair!" she whined, "tell her, Mike!"

Mike, however, was not listening to the argument. His eyes were fixed on the rubber band. He watched, mesmerized, as the cook twirled it around Veruca's hair. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't.

He could hear the sound of rubber stretching. It was slight, but it was there alright, and that was enough. Immediately, Mike felt his body freeze. His ears tuned into the sound, blocking out all other noise.

Mike still remembered how it felt to be stretched like a rubber band. He remembered the pain as he felt, lying in the puller. His body twisting, mutilating, as it surpassed its natural boundaries. He could hear the snap of his bones, as each one dislocated individually.

Suddenly, he was no longer in the Salt's kitchen. He was in a large, magenta-colored room, lying on a table, surrounded by Oompa Loompas. He was strapped up and chained down to what looked like some sort of medieval torture device. It was as if he was inside of one of his video games. But Mike knew better; this was no game.

The stupid Oompa Loompa's handed him something to bite on. Mike had seen enough movies to know where this was going: it was to drown out his screams. He winced violently. Mike wasn't exactly sure what they were going to do to him, but he knew one thing for sure: it was going to be very, very painful. He gulped.

Things only got worse from there. The second he bit down, Mike retched. It was just as he feared. He knew instantly from the sticky sweet taste. So sweet. _Too_ sweet. It was chocolate! _Disgusting! _Mike spit out the dreaded candy and tried to wipe his mouth, only to realize that his arms were chained to the stretching machine. _Great. Just great._ He gagged and spluttered, wishing for nothing more than to claw at his tongue.

Then the stretching itself began. The machine started slowly at first, causing only mild discomfort. However, this soon increased to a steady burn, then a violent sting. Mike had to will himself not cry out, forcing himself to think of other things.

The chocolate taste still lingered in his mouth. Mike desperately raked his teeth over his tongue in a futile attempt to dull its sweetness. Why could they have given him rubber to bite on like normal people? Wait, scratch that. If this had been normal in any way whatsoever at all, he wouldn't have had this problem to begin with!

Mike looked around him, studying his surroundings. _There is no way this will work, _he thought, smirking in spite of himself; it was always good to be right. Mike had seen many things that day which defied all logic, but this was something altogether different. He hadn't even shrunk, the atoms had just been rearranged. Since atoms were almost entirely made of empty space, it made perfect sense how they could be squeezed together, it just caused him to become more dense. More dense. Oh. Ha ha. Clever, Wonka. Mike wasn't sure if that had been done on purpose or not, but it still stung. Normally, insulting puns didn't bother him, growing up with a surname like Teavee did that to you. Yet, he couldn't help but feel offended by this play on words. Mike Teavee was many things: loud-mouthed, bad-tempered, arrogant, and at times, downright cruel and malicious. One thing he was not, however, was dense. He was on the top of his class, a world champion at virtual chess, a computer hacker, and a brilliant mathematician. He was anything** but** dense. After all, he was the one who had cleverly located a golden ticket using nothing but his extreme ingenuity and a laptop computer. If anyone deserved that grand prize, it was him. He felt angry, embarrassed, and frightened. But most of all he felt cheated. Wonka had cheated him out of his end of the deal. Mike couldn't stand it when somebody got the better of him.

Although in retrospect, it probably would have been wiser to use a guinea pig rather than test out the product himself. The other boy, Charlie, probably could've been swayed pretty easily. Hell, he would probably do anything he said as long as he made it sound noble. What a wuss.

Still, no matter how much blame Mike forced on other people, he knew it had ultimately been his fault. He had tried so hard to remain stoic and unreadable the entire trip, but he had made one fatal mistake, the worst mistake he could have possibly made: he had shown his weak spot to the enemy. To Wonka. The twisted chocolaty knew he would not be able to resist testing out a teleporting device. Mike inwardly groaned and cursed his own stupidity. How could he have made such an obvious error? He felt like a moron. He should have just kept his mouth shut and plotted how to use it to his advantage later. Mike had seen what was happening to the other kids. It was no accident that they had all disappeared. He knew that Wonka had been after him, he knew - -

Mike's thought were interrupted by a sudden rush of searing pain that went down his spine. _Pain. Pain. Pain. Chocolate. Pain._ He wanted to scream, he wanted to howl in agony. Every muscle in his body was on fire. He was being sawed in half by John Kramer, eaten alive by a zombie, Crusio'd by Lord Voldemort.

"Stop it!" he cried out, "Stop the machine! Stop! Stop! STOOOOP!"

The Oompa Loompas, however, seemed entirely oblivious to his cries of pain.

Mike met his father's eyes, wide in utter terror. Mike wanted to scream, but no words came out. Tears were streaming down his face. At this point he didn't even care, he just wanted it to end. Oh god, if they were trying to kill him, why didn't they get on with it already?

What was the purpose of all this, anyway? Did Wonka have a motive in mind? What was it? An experiment? An attempt to gain power? Or some sick sort of attempt to teach him a lesson. This could not possibly be legal, could it?

Mike heard the blood rushing through his ears, drowning out all other noise. His vision was beginning to blur, but he was able to make out the fuzzy shape of his father who appeared to be pleading with the Oompa Loompas to let him go, but to no avail.

And the pain . . . it was beyond merely unbearable. Beyond excruciating. No words could do the terrible sensation any justice. He could literally feel his consciousness slipping away. Once again, it hit him that this was no game. He could not press back and start from the beginning. He had lost, and for real.

Mike's last thoughts before passing out were, _GAME OVER._

* * *

**You know the drill: please review.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Cryptological Mystification: Thanks! (Assuming that "wow" was a compliment.)**

**Fruktus_1997: Thank you!**

**Serene_Halcyon: Thank you so much, I'm glad you like it! Mike's flashback was actually featured in one of my other fics called "Game Over" which went through the taffy stretcher from the point of view of Mike from the book, 1971 movie, and the newer movie (which this is based off of.) As for OCs, I usually try not to put too much of them in a story, because they often end up as Mary-Sues. Several, however play minor roles, although this story is mainly based off of Mike and Veruca. This chapter, however, has an OC playing a significant part.**

* * *

**"M**ike! Mike! Are you okay?"

Mike opened his eyes. He was lying on one of the Salt's non-decorative couches. Veruca, her parents, their butler, chauffer, and their cook all stood over him. It took him a couple of seconds to realize what had just happened.

_Damn it!_ He thought. Of course, he just **had** to have a flashback there and then, of all times. He tried to sit up, but Mrs. Salt pushed him back down.

"I'm fine," he tried to say, but she shushed him.

"Call an ambulance, Henry," she said, feeling his forehead as if checking his temperature.

Veruca frowned, probably more upset about her plans being ruined than concerned for Mike's well being.

"I'm fine," he said again.

"Don't worry, Mike. An ambulance has is making it's way over right now. Everything's going to be alright. We'll call your parents. What's their number?"

Oh no. No. This couldn't be happening. This could **not** be happening. Things were going so well. He had been so close to achieving his goal. It was just as Murphy's theory said: everything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

But Mike wasn't willing to give in so easily. He had come so close, far too close to give in just yet. He gave them the number to the pizza place near his house, one of the few things he would eat. It would buy him time, but not a way out.

"Wait!" he shouted suddenly, as Mr. Salt was about to leave. "I just remembered. They won't be able to answer."

Henry looked at him suspiciously. "And why is that?"

"Because . . . because . . ." he strained his mind, struggling to come up with something. "They're in Africa."

"Africa?"

"Yes. They're building houses for the poor. And . . . and there's no cell phone signal there. Veruca heard about it, and that's why she invited me over. We've been keeping in touch, you see. You know, like pen pals."

"What about E-mail?" asked Mrs. Salt. "Surely they must have a computer with them . . ."

Mike silently cursed, but tried to play it cool. "You can try," he said, "but they're really busy. Mom and Dad work from dawn until dusk, and by the time they're done for the day, the two of them are so tired that they usually go right to sleep. They might not answer for days. Or weeks." Mr. and Mrs. Salt exchanged looks. "I can give you their E-mail addresses though," he offered, quickly reciting the information. _The less reluctant I appear to contact them, the more realistic my lie will be, _he reasoned. He knew both of his parents' passwords, so deleting the messages would be easy.

The Salts still looked suspicious, and Mike was beginning to panic. Suddenly, the chauffer said. "The boy is telling the truth," everyone turned to him, surprised. "I spoke to the boy's parents before picking him up. They were just leaving."

Mike met the man's eyes. He winked at him, and the young boy understood. "Yeah," he agreed, "I don't know when you'll be able to reach them."

His words were barely registered by Veruca's parents, who were still gawking at their employee. Finally, Mr. Salt cleared his throat. "Very well," he said, "I will alert your parents via E-mail, and the doctor will arrive shortly. If you are sure that they won't mind you staying here, then I certainly won't protest, but. . ." he sighed. "Just lie down until the doctor comes." Mike nodded. "Good boy."

* * *

Mike tried to relax, but he couldn't help but worry about what would happen if his parents checked their E-mail. Both of them checked theirs nightly.

He glanced at his watch. It was 1:37 PM. England was seven hours ahead of Denver. Mike did a quick calculation in his head. That it meant it was about 6:23 back at home. He had plenty of time.

The doctor entered the room. "Are you Michael Teavee?" he asked.

Mike nodded, suddenly feeling very tired as the events of the day caught up to him. "My name is Mike," he tried to say, but his words slurred and his speech was unintelligible.

"MUMBLER!" he heard someone shout.

"Ah!" Mike sat upright, frantically looking around the room. "Who said that?" he demanded.

The doctor gave him a puzzled look. "Said what?"

Mike blinked. Great, now he was hearing things. "Never mind," he muttered.

* * *

The doctor concluded that Mike was just fine, although if anything happened again, he should be brought to the hospital. He was thanked, and then left.

"We should wait a couple of days for the excitement to die down. Then we act."

"Agreed."

* * *

As the days went by, Mike kept himself busy. He perfected his poison, crushed Hiroshi in virtual chess, and digitally inserted himself into photographs on the website of the camp he was supposed to be attending. Mike had already called the place prior to his arrival at the Salts, so he didn't need to worry any concerned camp directors dialing up his parents.

He overall seldom left his room in the time frame of nearly a week. Veruca's parents eventually did calm down, and Mike was left to wonder why the chauffer had testified for him.

Finally, after nearly a week had passed, Veruca announced that it "was time". She didn't need to explain herself any further, for Mike was just as prepared as she was.

"Mummy," Veruca said one morning. It was one of the few mornings Mrs. Salt was present during breakfast. Normally, the only time Mike would see her parents was during dinner.

Mrs. Salt looked up from the magazine she was reading. "Yes, Dear?"

"Mike and I are going out for a bit. Mr. Herald is driving us."

She paused for a moment, considering the request. Veruca batted her eyelashes and bounced up and down her toes. Mrs. Salt sipped her coffee and tapped her fingernails, before eventually giving in. "Alright," she agreed, "but don't go out for too long."

"Thank you, Mum! You're the best Mummy in the whole world!" Veruca ran up, kissing and flinging her arms around the woman. Her mother returned the hug and smiled, although it did not seem to reach her eyes.

Mike stood there somewhat awkwardly. His family was never the touchy-feely type and he was never sure what to do around people who were. He averted his eyes and developed an apparent fascination with his tennis shoes.

Eventually, Veruca's reign of manipulation was over, and they entered the limo. Mr. Herald, the same chauffer who flew Mike to England and stood up for him by lying right to the Salts' faces. He was curious to know more about him.

"Well?" Veruca demanded. "Are you just going to stand there with your mouth open until flies fly in, or are you getting in the car? That's what I thought, now move it."

* * *

Wonka's chocolate factory was located in a remote part of London, about an hour and a half from Buckinghamshire. The first half hour of the trip was spent by Mike and Veruca fighting over which movie they were going to see. Mike had his eyes on _28 Days Later_ and _A Clockwork Orange_. Veruca wanted to watch Four Weddings and Funeral and nothing else. Eventually, Mr. Herald told them that if they did not chose a film soon he was going to make them both watch Teletubbies.

The two eventually agreed on North by Northwest, which Mike enjoyed very much. Poking fun at it that is.

"How is his suit still perfect?" the boy demanded for the umpteenth time, "he was just chased by a freakin' plane!" Could this possibly be the same man who directed Psycho?

Veruca told Mike to shut up, and announced that she had to go to the bathroom. They stopped at a mall, and Veruca was let out. Mike decided to stay in the car with the chauffer.

"So . . ." he said. "Where are you from?"

"Manchester," was the curt reply.

Mike nodded, even though he knew Mr. Herald wouldn't be able to see from the front.

"You want to know why I lied to my employers?" he guessed.

He cringed. "Uh . . . yeah." Wow, was it really that obvious?

"I have known Miss Veruca for a long time. Besides, I have my own issues with Mr. Wonka."

Mike gulped. "H-how did you know about that?"

The driver chuckled. "You're a smart boy, Mr. Teavee, I thought it would have been obvious. Honestly, the two of you are about as subtle as a Wagner opera!"

Mike stiffened at the insult, despite not knowing what a Wagner opera was. Unable to conjure up an immediate comeback, he changed the subject. Mike looked at his watch. "She** did** say that she was only going to the bathroom, right?"

The chauffer groaned. "Please. Do you honestly think that Veruca is going to miss out on an opportunity to shop unsupervised?"

The American boy groaned, realizing that they could be stuck for hours. Might as well use the time to his advantage. "You said that you and Mr. Wonka had bad blood between you. Why is that?"

"That is none of your concern, Mr. Teavee," the man snapped, instantly defensive.

Ooookaay then. Well, if the man wouldn't tell him himself, he would have to find another way. Mike decided to resort to help from his old friend: the Internet.

He pulled out his phone and connected to Wi-Fi. He went to the Google search engine and typed in "Peter Herald" (he had heard their butler call him by his first name).

After skimming through several pages of useless information, Mike was about to give up hope, until an old news article caught his eye.

_September 21, 1995:_

_ TWO WONKA EMPLOYEES SUSPECTED OF SPYING _

_ Wilbur Herald, 19, was removed from his occupation at Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory yesterday morning, on account of treason. Mr. Herald was suspected of selling the company's secrets to Mr. Slugworth, Wonka's most competitive rival. _

_ Mr. Wonka was outraged upon hearing that one of his most trusted workers betrayed him, and has announced that if the spying continues, he will likely close down his factory for good._

Wilbur and his brother, Peter, 24, were both fired from their positions.

"You're awfully quiet . . ." Peter mused. Then it hit him. "Let me guess, you looked me up on your phone."

Mike saw no point in denying it. "Yeah."

"If you must know, you might as well hear the whole truth," he said. "While working in the factory, we were kept under harsh conditions and very underpaid. Our families needed the money, so my brother decided to work for Slugworth. I knew nothing about it at the time - - not that I would have protested, of course. The man was practically a slave laborer.

"When Wonka found out, he was absolutely furious. He didn't want to merely let us go, he wanted to prove a point. So he proceeded to humiliate my brother in front of all of the workers. He nearly blinded him with food colouring and got him stuck in a machine that ripped off his - - but my point is, if you want to do something to harm Wonka, I certainly will not stop you."

"Why didn't Veruca just get her parents to sue him?"

"For what? Getting her dress filthy? Besides, things have changed, Veruca's parents don't cater to her like they used to - - they still do, mind you, but they would never dare do anything that would hurt their reputation. I also believe they are a bit frightened of Mr. Wonka." Mr. Herald stopped, feeling that he said too much.

Mike had gotten all he needed to hear. Now they had another ally to help them - - or at least, an adult who wouldn't rat them out.

Veruca returned about twenty minutes later with four large shopping bags. And the ride resumed. By the time they got to the factory, Mike practically flung himself out of the car.

The children stood before the large building in awe. Neither wanted to admit it, but they were both frightened.

"Go on," Veruca prompted.

"It's ladies first," Mike replied, gripping his backpack tightly.

"Oh please! Now, of all times, you decide to be a gentleman!"

"It doesn't matter, anyway." Mr. Harold pointed out, parking the car and walking up to the gate. He gave it a little tug. "The gate is locked."

Mike slapped himself on the forehead. _Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! _How could he be such an idiot? Of course Wonka wasn't going to leave the gate open, let alone the front door. Surely there had to be some other way to get in . . .

Mr. Harold, as if reading the boy's mind, said, "I guess you'll just have to use the alternate entrance."

"Alternate entrance?" Veruca repeated.

"Of course. There's no way this place has just one door. Lead the way, Mr. H!"

Harold gave Mike a look, but agreed to lead them to the back door. The trio walked around the building until they reached an oddly shaped tree. "If I remember correctly, this branch acts a lever. . ." he pulled it.

Immediately, a chute opened up underneath the children's' fee†, sending them down a long and unexpected slide. It happened so fast that Mike didn't even remember to scream.

The tunnel was dark and there was no way to tell where or when it ended, so it came as quite a surprise when the ride came to an abrupt stop in a pitch-black room.

"Oof!" he moaned, landing uncomfortably.

Veruca shrieked and landed on top of him. Slowly, she got to her feet. "Unbelievable!" she cried, smoothing her skirt. "He could have at least warned us! I mean, honestly, why have a trapdoor in a place like that? It's completely preposterous!" she looked up angrily. "When I get home, I'm telling Daddy to dock his wage! We are paying that man far too much." she crossed her arms and stomped her foot. "Did you hear that, Harold?" she shouted towards the ceiling.

"Shut up," said Mike, "he can't hear you, anyway."

Veruca glared at him, although surprisingly, did not argue. "What do we do now?" she demanded. "I don't suppose you have some sort of plan?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. We want to poison the chocolate, right? So we have to go to where the chocolate process begins - -"

"The coco trees?"

"No! The chocolate river! That's where all of the chocolate is mixed, isn't it? If we pour it in, then all of his products will get a good dosage, and the source will be clear."

"Fine. Do you know how to get to the chocolate room from here?"

"Umm. . . no." Come to think of it, he had never been in this part of the factory before. He didn't even know where to start.

The British girl rolled her eyes. "Brilliant," she muttered, looking around the room. "Where the bloody hell are we, anyway?"

"Like I know! When I came to this place, I used the front door, remember? They had the creepy puppets . . ." He could feel Veruca shudder. "Oh man, you didn't see the aftermath. In the elevator, Wonka showed us the 'puppet hospital' and - - wait, the elevator! It says all the names of the rooms. If we could just find it, I'm I could . . ."

"How are we going to find anything?" Veruca demanded, her voice quivering slightly. "It's pitch black; I can't see a blasted thing!"

CREEEEAAK!

Veruca screamed and grabbed Mike's hand. As soon as she realized what she had just done, her hand dropped.

"Relax, moron, it's just my shoe. Anyway, I think I have a flashlight some where in my bag . . . ah, here it is."

The bright light nearly blinded the two children, causing Mike to drop the device in alarm. Once he gather his thoughts and picked it up, a whole new set of problems arose. "DAMN IT!" he swore loudly.

"W-what is it?"

"Look around and you tell me!"

Veruca did look around, and the problem soon became quite apparent: on every available inch on the room's walls, was a door. There were hundreds, possibly thousands in all.

"Of course," she muttered sarcastically. "I would have expected nothing less. What do we do now?"

"Well . . . we should try a bunch of doors, and see if any of them look familiar."

"But that could take hours!" was the whiney reply.

"Oh, I'm SORRY. Do you have a better plan?" Salt scowled and muttered something under her breath, but agreed to follow his idea for the time being. "That's what I thought. Now start looking. We have no time to lose."

Veruca pulled a one. "It's locked!" she complained.

Mike rolled his eyes. "Let me at it," he said, pulling out a paper clip.

"You know how to pick locks?"

"I've seen it on TV before, although I've never actually tried," he admitted, somewhat regretting mentioning the latter. Mike fumbled with the clip, trying to bend it like they did in those spy movies. Unfortunately, his near-paper-thin fingers were too long and spindly for the job, rendering the very notion utterly useless. "Forget it," he said, "Let's just find another door."

And they did. It was not long before Veruca spotted a pretty pink door that led into a hallway. Mike couldn't see any obvious danger, but he still didn't trust it completely.

Veruca, however, had an entirely opposite view of the situation. A way out was a way out after all. She quickly pushed past Teavee. "Ladies first," she said.

"No," said Mike. "You wait here. I'll go first to make sure its safe." He wasn't sure where exactly those words came from, but it sounded like the right thing to say.

Veruca hesitated, but decided that if there was to be any danger, it was better that he go than her. Her life was far too precious to waist, but something told her that nobody would really be missing him.

Mike ducked, as not to hit his head, and stepped foot into the hallway. "Okay, it don't see anything weird. It looks just like a normal hallway. . . OH, GOD! NO! NO! NOOOO!"

"What is it?"

"The wallpaper is made of CHOCOLATE! Oh, the horror!"

Mike tried to make his way back, but Veruca pushed him back into the hallway. "Grow up!" she said, slamming the door behind her, a rather feebleminded move on her part.

"Veruca, you idiot!"

"What? What did I do now?"

"You closed the door! Haven't you ever seen horror movies? I'll bet you anything that it locks!" Just to prove his point, Mike went over and tried to door. Sure enough, it didn't budge. "Well, whatdaya know? It's freakin' locked! Now we're trapped in here for who knows how long! We'll starve! Do you know how long the human body can last without food - - well, actually it depends on whether they get water. I think I have a water bottle in my backpack, but that wont be enough to sustain us for long!"

"Mike, if you haven't noticed, we're in a room made entirely out of chocolate!"

"Oh, I've noticed. And I repeat: we'll starve to death!"

"Grow up. Now, I'm sure there's a door somewhere. After all, who would build a corridor that doesn't lead to a single room?"

"Willy Wonka, that's who."

Veruca groaned. "I hate this!" she complained. "I want to go home right now!"

"That's not going to happen any time soon. Look," he said, pointing his flashlight forward. They could only see a short distance ahead of them, even with the light. "I'm sure this tunnel ends somewhere. Come on."

"But what if . . ."

"We don't have much of a choice, now do we? I don't know about you, but I want to get out of here. I want to live to see my fifteenth birthday. You can stay if you want, Princess, I'm going."

Veruca hesitated for several seconds, but decided to follow.

The two walked in silence for several minutes. Occasionally Mike would mutter something about his back, or Veruca about her feet, but there was very little actual conversation.

Suddenly, Mike stopped in his tracks. "What the . . . ?" he looked straight ahead with his mouth agape. "Veruca," he said. "I don't think we're alone."

* * *

**BUM BUM BUUUM! What will happen next? Only I know! Mua-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha *cough* ha-ha! **

**If you think you know, have any ideas or suggestions, compliments, criticism, or just want to say hi, please review!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey, guys! I have good news and bad news: school starts next week, so I won't be able to update as often, although I'll try my best, and the good news is, I have worked out a concrete plot for this story! I had one before, but now it's much better. I'm sorry I took so long to get this new chapter up. I was away on vacation and wifi was temperamental there. So anyway, enjoy.**

**Cryptological Mystification: I know, I'm just evil like that!**

**Frutkus_1997:" thanks!**

**x_Silent_Dawn_x: Yep, my thoughts exactly.**

**radio-ga-ga: Thank you so much!**

**book_lover_613: Mr. Harold is a bit of an odd character, but he does play a crucial part in the story. To put things into perspective, he's having these kids do the dirty work for him. Also, the reason why the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder symptoms didn't show up earlier was because of Mike's environment. In his own home, people with PTSD often feel much safer. In fact, it was because his symptoms had died down that his parent sent him to summer camp, not realizing that it would probably lead to future blackouts and fits. Hopefully, this answers your questions, and thank you for being honest. **

* * *

**T**here was a huge gaping hole in the wall, about two my three feet. And there were teeth marks, which meant . . .

"Look at this!" Veruca exclaimed. "Someone wrote on the wall!"

"What's it say?"

"V-A-B. What's vab?"

"It's probably some secret code," Mike observed, "maybe it's the way out of here! Maybe it's- -"

"I think it's just someone's initials."

". . . Or that."

The corners of Veruca's mouth twitched in a small smile. "Do you think we should go through it?"

"I don't we have much of a choice. You go first this time," he said to her. "I went first the last two times."

Veruca frowned. "But I don't want - - AHH!" Mike pushed her gently. Unfortunately, because she was in high heels, the small push caused poor Veruca to topple over. " . . . Ow."

Mike grumbled an apology (after laughing a bit) and helped her up. She glowered at him, which he returned with a smirk.

The two looked around. This room had a high ceiling, a relief for Mike, who was no longer forced to crouch over. His back was aching terribly, and he wasn't sure how much longer he would have been able to hold that position before he would collapse.

The room was full of oddly shaped green, purple, and red blobs. The shortest lumps stood about ten feet tall and appeared translucent.

"Jell-O," Mile mumbled, touching one of the blobs. "Why would anyone . . .?" he stopped, deciding that he really did not want to go there.

"Let's just go."

There was no argument there. The two children marched straight forward, without once looking back. The Jell-O blocked their view, so they had no idea how big the room was or where it ended. But as they went on, something seemed to change. Mike noticed that the blobs no longer seemed random; they were now in what seemed to be specific shapes. Rectangles were common, as were triangles.

The further they went on, the more complex the Jell-O shapes seemed to grow. It was not long before they were passing life-sized sculptors of ships or the Eiffel Tower.

Once they passed a goliath Jell-O depiction of Wonka's head, Veruca shrieked.

Mike laughed. "It's going to eat you!" he taunted.

"N-no it's not that. I-I hear somebody. Someone's following us!" her eyes were wide in terror.

Mike didn't believe her at first, but when she did not calm down and only continued to grow more and more tense, he began to worry too. Maybe she _was_ telling the truth after all.

Something flashed out of the corner of Mike's eye. It was on the other side of a Jell-O Taj Mahal. It was a shadow. There was someone in the room with them!

"Who is it?" he shouted in his most intimidating voice. "Show yourself!"

Another shadow sprinted across the room, this one a bit bulkier in appearance. The two disappeared just as fast as they appeared, with superhuman speed. Mike decided it wasn't worth it to pursue them.

"Let's go," he said.

"But what about—"

"It's fine. They're gone. Now let's just find the stupid river, pour the poison in, and haul butt out of here."

"Agreed." The two began walking, but Veruca looked troubled. It was then she said something rather unexpected. ". . . The poison. It won't kill anybody, will it?"

Mike was rather surprised by the girl's sudden show of concern. "Of course not!" he said. How could she doubt his chemical abilities? "It'll just make people sick for a day, hence the name 'twenty-four hour poison'."

She seemed a bit relieved, which only continued to puzzle the boy.

DAH . . . DAH . . . DAH . . . DAH . . . .

Veruca shrieked. "What was that?" she cried.

"Shut up, it's just my ring tone." She gave him an incredulous look. "It's the _Star Wars_ theme song," he explained, picking up his cell phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Sweetie, how's camp?"

"It wonderful!" Mike said. He stopped. _Better not sound too happy, or she'll know you're up to something._ "If by wonderful you mean a living hell! Why did you send me to this horrible place? I haven't seen a TV set in weeks!"

"I know it's hard, Honey. But I want you to know that your father and I are so proud of you. Trust me, you'll thank us later."

He snorted. "I doubt it." Was his reply, while glaring at Veruca. ". . . Yeah. I know. I know that. I KNOW! Yeah, whatever. I said I _know, _geez! Great. Bye!" as Mike hung up the phone, he noticed that the battery was low. "Veruca," he said, "you have a phone with you, right?"

"Of course! What do you think I am, stupid?" Mike did not answer.

She pulled out a pink, bejeweled cell phone. "Satisfied?" she asked.

"Can I see it for a second?"

"No! I don't let just anybody touch my phone, you know! Daddy bought it for me, and it's very expensive." Mike didn't doubt that. "I don't want you getting your filthy finger prints all over it!"

"I just wanted to check the batteries . . . "

"Oh, well why didn't you say so? I'll check," Mike rolled his eyes. Veruca examined the phone. "About seventy-five percent battery remaining. Are you happy?"

"Yeah. Come on, let's get out of here, I need to use the bathroom."

Veruca gave him a look of pure disgust. "Now?" she said. "Really?"

"I can't control my bladder! Let's go!"

Veruca followed him, but was sure to keep her distance.

* * *

After nearly two hours of wandering the Jell-O room, the children found an exit. Unfortunately, the second they stepped into the next room, a whole new set of problems arose.

The room looked like some kind of factory place. There were normal things, like conveyor belts and scales, but also odd, Wonka-ish things, including (although not limited to) what appeared to be a giant toothbrush, mechanical clown heads, and half a guitar. Those objects, however, although bizarre and somewhat unsettling, were not the issue at hand. The room was full of what appeared to be at least fifty Oompa Loompas. The little men had not noticed the children yet, but there was no way they could make their way through the room without being seen.

"What do we do now?" Veruca mouthed.

Luckily, Mike had planned for such a scenario. He had packed sleepy gas (conveniently in the form of a spray can) in his backpack as well as a mini tranquilizer gun. One would be surprised what people sold online.

Reaching for the bag, one of the Oompa Loompas looked up at the boy. He nudged the worker next to him, who did the same to his neighbor. Soon Mike had roughly a hundred little eyes on him.

He froze.

_Get the spray,_ he said to himself. _Get it now!_

But Mike was too terror-stricken to move. The eyes continued to glare at him, almost in a mocking way, as if daring the boy to make the first move, and knowing that he didn't have the guts. They were the same cold eyes that had taunted him nearly two years before. And the worst part was, he was powerless to stop them.

"Snap out of it!" Veruca said nervously.

Mike felt his legs become weak, and his vision begin to blur. He struggled to stand up. He was not going to black out again, not this time.

He could hear Veruca screaming at him, as the Oompa Loompas, now no longer stationary, slowly moved towards them. Mike knew that the creatures were capable of much faster movement, so he didn't understand why they would choose now to go slowly, although it did rise the tension considerably. Perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks on him.

Instantly, everything seemed to speed up. Veruca, aware of the contents of Mike's bag (they had used her credit card, after all) reached inside and pulled out the spray. In a blur, the room was full of a foggy mist, and Mike felt wearier than ever.

"Come on, MOVE!" she cried, pulling his arm. "We have to get out of here!"

At first the words did not even seem to register with the boy. Then, ever so slowly, he raised his foot, which felt like a thousand pounds, and slowly began to walk towards the door.

He could see stars dancing in front of his eyes, and Mike knew that he was powerless to stop it. He crumpled to the floor in an unconscious heap.

* * *

Color swirled and danced all around him and he was vaguely aware of guitars playing in the background. Mike looked up, confused as to where he was and how he got there. The last thing he remembered . . .

**_The most important thing_**

_What the hell? _Why were there voices chanting? What was going on? Mike turned his head and saw that he was face to face - - or rather, face to shoulder, with a giant Oompa Loompa.

**_That we've ever learned_**

The Oompa Loompa turned to face Mike, who began to panic, and backed

away . . .

. . . into a giant kitchen!

**_The most important thing we've learned, as far as children are concerned_**

**_Is never, never let them near a television set_**

It was then he realized that he was in fact inside the television itself. That shouldn't have been possible, yet there he was. Fear pulsed through every vein in his body. Oh god, he had to get out of there before he ended up like the rest!

Or better yet just don't install the idiotic thing at all

Normally, Mike would have shouted out in indignity, but his voice could not be heard over the blasting music that threatened to shatter his eardrums. Mike decided he would worry about running for his life first, and afterwards give Wonka a piece of his mind.

The background had changed yet again. Now he was standing next to a pair of bare feet in an entirely black and white setting. He recognized the setting immediately. Although a part of his mind was curious and wanted to glance up the legs he forced his mind to turn to the showerhead which, right on cue.

The scene changed to Oompa Loompa style MTV, and Mike began to run for his life.

**_It rots the senses in the head_**

**_It kills imagination dead_**

**_It clogs and clutters up the mind_**

"Excuse me?" he said, knowing that no one would hear. He was the top of his class and ranked as one of the world's youngest online chess champions. Mike had grown an immunity to most insults. It helped that he had such a ridiculous surname, but whenever someone insulted his intelligence it struck a nerve somehow. Once again, he wanted to scream, he wanted to cry out that an injustice had been made. Wonka would pay for this . . .

**_It makes a child dull and blind_**

How did he get on a keyboard?

**_His brain becomes as soft as cheese_**

**_His thinking powers rust and freeze_**

**_He cannot think_**

**_He only sees_**

This was so unfair! All of the other kids were at gone by this point in the song. Why did he have to endure the humiliation of hearing the entire thing?

He was thrown into the air along with a drumstick and realized that he was in the middle of a Loompa _Beatle _concert. This was extra insulting somehow.

**_Regarding little Mike Teavee_**

**_We very much regret that we_**

**_Shall simply have to wait and see_**

Mike dodged numerous things. He was not normally athletic, and knew that he would not last much longer like this.

**_We very much regret that we_**

MTV again.

**_Will simply have to wait and see_**

He was in_ Psycho _again. _Great, just great._ Knowing what was coming, Mike prepared and ducked from the knife, realizing that had he been just milliseconds slower he would have been sliced to shreds. But now he out of energy and could do nothing as he was beaten up repeatedly throughout the rest of the song.

**_If he can get him back his height_**

**_But if we can't_**

**_It serves him right_**

Mike's eyes shot open. He was lying on the floor. Veruca was looking at him with an unreadable expression on her. "It happened again," she said. It was a statement, not a question. Mike nodded slightly, not really thinking about what he was doing. "You're an idiot, Mike Teavee." She said nothing more. She didn't have to. Mike knew that she had dragged him out of the room to safety. (How embarrassing.)

The two children waited outside for several more minutes, never exchanging a word. After nearly half an hour had passed, Veruca took the chance and spoke. "Do you think it's safe to go back in?"

"Probably." Mike slowly opened the door a crack. Sure enough, all of the little Oompa Loompas were lying on the floor in an unconscious state. "All clear," he whispered, "let's go."

They entered the room on tiptoe, although it was not long before they realized that the little men would not wake up no matter how loud they were.

Just before they reached the door on the other side, Mike turned around. This was the opportunity of a lifetime, after all. Why miss it?

"What are you doing?" demanded Veruca. "That's the wrong way! They can wake up at any minute."

Mike ignored her. Slowly, even leisurely, the boy stepped in front of a chubby male Oompa Loompa who was sucking his thumb. He smirked. "I could kill you right now if I wanted," he gloated, "it would be easy. I could take my bag and suffocate you. Or maybe I could take a knife and slice you open." He began to circle the body with the poise of the ultimate supervillan. "I could snap your neck just as easily as I could break a toothpick!" he gave a cold laugh that sent chills down his companion's spine.

"We have to go," she said. "They'll wake up soon!"

Still, the American refused to pay her any attention. He had a murderous spark in his eye, like some deranged sociopath.

"I could make you suffer in ways unimaginable," he continued to narrate. "How would you like that, huh? Huh? Answer me!" he kicked the creature in the nose. Blood came pouring out and Veruca gagged.

Teavee grinned like a madman. He walked over to another Oompa Loompa and did the same thing, if a bit less gently, then he did it a third time, stomping on the nose of what looked like a child Oompa Loompa.

Mike was so busy that he didn't notice one of them open its eyes.

"Mike, look out!" Veruca called, watching as more and more of the little men awoke.

Suddenly, the boy seemed to snap out of his trance and realized what he was doing. Kicking away several of the little workers, he ran out of the room and slammed the door. "Why didn't you warn me?" he demanded.

"Warn you?" Veruca said incredulously. "I was shouting at you the entire time, you wouldn't bloody listen!"

"_You wouldn't bloody listen_," he mimicked mockingly.

Veruca made some sort of odd stifled scream to signify her annoyance. Mike thought it sounded more like a dying cat.

"Come on, let's go!"

They trudged along, constantly alert, searching for danger. If we run into more Oompa Loompas, I'll take them out with my eyes closed! Mike told himself.

The further they went, the more worried the children became. What if they were just walking circles the whole time? What if there was no way out? What if they died in there? Mike imagined a scene with him and Veruca walking around the factory with long grey beards. _It could happen,_ he reasoned, _the place is certainly big enough._

Suddenly, they heard quiet noises. Soon the noises grew louder and sounded closer. Mike realized it was voices. _More Oompa Loompas?_ He wondered. The thought made him sick, he wasn't ready to face the little men again just yet, he had barely made it out the last time.

Veruca heard it too. "Do you hear that?" she asked. Her voice sounded nervous.

Mike listened carefully, The sound was coming through the wall. Carefully, he pressed his ear to it, trying to eavesdrop on the conversation.

"Shut up! It's going to be fine, don't be a wimp. We'll get out of here. I – I promise." He knew that voice. Why did he know that voice?

The door swung open, and Mike jumped back in surprise. Veruca screamed like a maniac.

"AHH!"

"Bloody hell!"

"Oh my god!"

"_Was zum Teufel ist da los?_"

What where the odds? Standing before them were two people they never thought they would see again: Augustus Gloop and Violet Beauregard.

Augustus, although still noticeably chubby, had about as much muscle as fat. He stood about 5"9, and was bulky all around. His strawberry blond hair had grown a bit and begun to curl. He wore sweatpants, and a sweatshirt that had some slogan in German on it.

Violet, who stood at about five feet, looked like a midget in comparison to her companion (although they both looked small compared to Mike.) She wore a black T-shirt with some sort of red design on it and dark jeans. Her hair had grown considerably over the years, now at about shoulder length, and was tied back in two pigtails. Her skin and hair had faint traces of lavender pigment, although the vast majority of the color seemed to have worn off. Amazingly, despite all that she had been through, Beauregard was _still_ _chewing gum._ Mike wouldn't be surprised if it was the same piece that she had been working on during the tour (prior to her accident, of course.)

On top of Violet's shoulder, stood a small, furry animal. Veruca screamed bloody murder. "SQUIRREL!" she cried, backing away, into a wall. The British girl paled as if she was about to faint. "Get that thing away from me!"

Violet rolled her eyes. "Nice to see you to," she said sarcastically. Violet took a step forward.

Another scream. "I mean it! Get that repulsive beast away from me!"

"Squirrel?" Violet looked at her shoulder, and if just noticing the creature there. "Oh," she said. "Let me make two things clear: one, Veruca, you're a moron. Two, this is a ferret, not a squirrel." Violet stroked the animal lovingly as Veruca continued to whimper. "It's okay, Skippy. She didn't mean it."

"Skippy?"

"Shut up!"

Ooookaay then. Mike, who had never really been comfortable with making small talk, decided to get right to the point. "What you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" Violet replied, never taking her eyes off of Veruca, who was still trembling in the corner. It did not take a genius to see that the she was totally relishing the girl's misery, especially knowing that she had caused it.

"I asked you first. What are you doing here? If it is for the same reason that I think it is, this could prove to be advantageous."

Violet smirked. "And what reason would that be?" she asked, without doubt already knowing the answer.

"Revenge."

Another smirk appeared on Violet's face. There was an odd sort of malicious glint in her eyes that would be enough to make any sane man run for cover. Who ever said that Mike was sane?

Meanwhile, Veruca, who had recovered from her traumatic introduction, glared at Beauregard with a look of pure loathing. "I think you looked better as a blueberry," she said snidely.

The reaction was immediate. "That's it, sister!" Instantly, Violet pounced on the other girl, clawing and kicking like a wild animal. Augustus grabbed the little girl, still punching a screaming, and dragged her away from Veruca.

"They ought to lock you up!" the Brit cried, smoothing out her dress, and examining her injuries. "You tried to kill me!"

"Unfortunately, I did not succeed," Violet growled, she turned to Augustus who was still holding her still. "Come on, give me a shot at her!"

"No."

Violet whipped her head around and glared at him. Her voice was icy cold. She spoke slowly careful to emphasize every last word. "What. Did. You. Say."

The German boy squeaked and let her go. It was rather amusing for Mike to see the large boy pushed around and bullied by a little girl. Yet again, she did have a black belt in karate. So he wasn't about to interfere, plus he kind of thought that Veruca deserved it.

Violet marched over the other girl, smiling innocently. Too innocently. "I'm sorry if I hurt you. How about we start over?" she held out her hand for the other girl to take.

Veruca may not have been a genius, but she definitely sensed something fishy. Hesitantly, she took up the offer, (although she grabbed Violet by the wrist instead of the hand, as if afraid of catching some terminal illness). The two girls locked eyes in an intense staring contest. Veruca was so preoccupied that she did not notice a small furry creature crawling out of Violet's sleeve and into hers.

Skippy climbed into the British girl's shirt and began scurrying around. It did not take Veruca long to figure out was exactly was going on. Violet laughed hysterically while the poor girl screamed, patting down her chest and back in a desperate attempt to rid herself of the ferret. Even Mike had to admit, it looked sort of ridiculous.

Eventually, Skippy decided that he liked Violet's shirt better, and popped his head out of the neck hole before scampering down Veruca's back and making his way over to his master, looking ever so pleased with himself. Violet patted the little animal on the head and gave it a treat.

"You're REWARDING him?" Veruca shrieked.

Violet shrugged. "It's not his fault. He didn't know what he was doing was wrong."

Veruca screamed and banged her head against the wall. No one bothered stopping her.

* * *

"So how did you manage to run so quickly through the Jell-O room. That was you in it, wasn't it?"

"I TOLD you it was Jell-O!" said Violet to Augustus. Who sighed and gave her a euro. Apparently, the two had made some sort of bet. Violet examined the money for a second before answering Mike's question. "It was in one of the rooms, they had this candy dispenser. This weird looking sucking candy came out - -"

"And you _took _it?"

"Of course not. I'm not stupid. Augustus took one, when I saw that it was safe, I took for myself. Apparently it gives you a huge energy boost."

"And it tastes like cinnamon!" Augustus added, seeming completely oblivious to the fact that Violet had just insulted him.

Mike nodded. "No weird side effects?"

She shook her head and they continued walking. Mike felt the pain in his legs return. He hadn't been doing the stretches that his doctor recommended, and had basically been sitting on his ass for the last week. Given the circumstances, he was surprised he even made it as far as he did walking.

As the pain increased, Mike felt as if he were about to collapse and asked for a break, where he promptly fell to the floor.

The children took the time to more or less catch up. Violet explained how she and Augustus had met up at a junior wrestling championship in Mexico (Violet's mother had not wanted her to go, so she bribed her brother to take her.) Augustus had won the boys' competition, and Violet won the girls'. The two had exchanged e-mails and kept in touch ever since. So when Violet had heard about Wonka and Charlie's trip, they seized the chance and met together to plan the perfect revenge. Their plan, incidentally was to get photographs of Wonka's unethical treatment and send them to the media. Although, admittedly, they decided that they liked Mike and Veruca's idea better, although theirs would be used as a backup, should things go wrong.

"Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong," Mike quoted Murphy's Law sullenly. He never was one for optimism.

"We didn't ask you."

Mike ignored her, continuing to make his way forward. Suddenly, without warning, he stopped in his tracks (this was becoming a pattern.) "Oh. My. God." He breathed as he entered the new room. Mike could not believe his eyes. After the TV Room Mike thought nothing in the factory would surprise him. Needless to say, he was wrong.

* * *

**I have already written the next chapter, but I'm not going to publish it until I have finished the one after that. Although the story if thought out, if there is anything you would like to see the children face in the factory, let me know in your review. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Alright, so . . . high school start on Monday *gulp*. Wish me luck.**

**I told myself I would update before school, so . . . yeah, here it is. I have the next chapter written out, as well as a detailed plot line. I would like to thank everyone who gave me ideas. Not all of them are going to be included, but some of them are. Thank you to everyone who just reviewed even if they didn't have an opinion on what I should do next.**

**Alisbet: Hmm . . . interesting. I don't if you read Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, but it has something like that in it. As for the thing about animals, while I didn't exactly use the idea as said, there will be something similar to it in my next chapter, so keep your eyes open. And thank you for reviewing!**

**Fruktus_1997: That scene was actually one of the first ones I came up with for this story. It felt really good to finally post it and I'm glad you liked it (I was never too fond of the Oompa Loompas myself.)**

**Anonymous: Interesting idea. Are you referring to the Russian kid to faked having a golden ticket? Yeah, I'll think I'll definitely mention him, good idea, thanks!**

**The _Disnerd: I love it! I was actually planning something similar in my earlier drafts, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to include it. Now that you mentioned it, I definitely will. It would be a nice twist, and would really show how far they came. It's like the saying, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. **

**twitchy witch: Thank you, I will!**

**And lastly, Cryptological Mystification: Always a pleasure to read your reviews. I don't know what you're talking about, it's very imaginative! **

* * *

**T**hey were standing in the middle of room with a black and white checkerboard floor. The room was filled with elaborate, life-sized statues. Mike opened his mouth to speak, but Veruca beat him to it. "It's a giant chess board!" she cried in amazement.

There were three pieces missing on the back side: a pawn, a knight (just the horse stood), and the queen. And the worst part was, the pieces were either black or white chocolate. _Was there anything more repulsive?_ Mike wondered.

"Vat do ve do?" asked Augustus nervously.

Mike smirked. Putting on his best British accent, he said, "It's obvious, isn't it? We have to play our way across the room."

"But vhy are dere onlee tree missing? Dere are four of us."

"I think one us is supposed to give the orders to the pieces, sort of like a conductor or something."

"Ooh!" Veruca squealed excitedly. "I want to be the Queen!" She jumped onto the board and ran to the empty space beside the king. The second she stepped onto the chair, something strange happened, (because G-d forbid should Wonka create a room where nothing did.)

Veruca glanced down and screamed as she saw her foot take on an odd, brown color.

Violet's eyes widened. "Step on all the way!" she ordered. Veruca was so shocked that she obeyed without question.

"Vat is 'appening to 'er?" asked Augustus nervously.

"She's . . . she's turning into chocolate, like the other pieces!" Violet, however, sounded more excited than worried. "Augustus, you can be a pawn."

A pawn? Mike smirked. _How punderful._ Oh, wow. That was pathetic.

"And you," Violet said to Mike, "you can be a knight."

"And what gives you the right to order me around? Maybe I want to lead this game." He gave her his best menacing glare.

Violet snorted, returning his gaze. "I just so happen to be a world champion chess player!"

"So am I!" If a constant rivalry with a couple of Asian kids on the internet counts.

"I also happen to own four medals and _five _trophies from the tournaments I have played in. Two of which were aired on live TV."

Mike hesitated. Still, he was determined not to back down. There was no way he would be beaten - - by a _little girl_, no less! "Sorry to break it to you, but contrary to what Mommy said, trophies mean nothing. For all you know, those others could have been terrible chess players - - or maybe they all ran away when they realized that their competitor was giant fruit!"

He had crossed a line. Violet's nostrils flared aggressively. She took a menacing step towards him, both of her fists raised in attacking position. "Take that back."

Mike couldn't help but laugh. "Is that supposed to be threatening?" he asked mockingly. "I've seen preschoolers scarier than you!"

"HIIYAAH!" she cried, running at tops speed towards the boy (gum still in her mouth.) It was too late when Mike remembered she was a black belt in karate. Oops.

Mike shut his eyes, preparing for impact. This was going to hurt . . .

. . . And he was right. Violet grabbed him from his waist (which was up to her neck) as if he weighed nothing, flipping him onto the board and having him land perfectly on the knight's horse. It all happened in the blink of an eye.

"Oh no," Mike breathed, as he realized what was happening. Instantly, his feet began to feel tingly, as if they were asleep. Mike did not need to look down to know what was happening.

He could hear Violet laughing nastily from behind him. "See, Teavee? I always win!"

Mike shouted back some creative insults that the author of this story chooses not to repeat. Then Violet, not one to give anyone the last laugh, shot back another string of insults that were equally as creative, if not more obscene.

Teavee glanced down at his torso in horror. Just the thought of what was happening was enough to make his stomach churn. He watched to retch. He wanted to scream his lungs out. After all, he was becoming the very thing he hated most, and quite literally. The boy was too terrified to even bother musing how such a thing was even physically possible.

The tingling sensation was all over his body now. The transformation was nearly complete.

Soon Mike began to panic. What if the process was irreversible and he was stuck like this forever? It would be cruel fate indeed, not to mention an ironic one. It sounded just like the sort of twisted thing Wonka would do, the creep.

He was vaguely aware of Violet shouting orders. The pieces moved on her command. It was like a more sickening version of _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. _Had Wonka seen the movie? It seemed almost too alike to be a coincidence. Mike wondered if J.K. Rowling could sue him if he ever put the product on sale. He hoped that she would.

"What's the matter, Teavee?" Violet asked, "don't you want to say anything?"

By now, it was up to his neck. Mike estimated that he had about fifteen seconds before he was completely immersed from head to toe. Still, he did not say a word. Mike was too smart to fall for the girl's tricks. He knew that her hope was for him to freeze in mid-sentence, most likely leaving his face in an embarrassing position. No; he had to maintain some dignity.

Violet giggled, although it seemed somewhat distant. Her maniacal laughter filled the room, echoing off the walls in an ominous tone. Now if only she would stroke her creepy ferret . . . .

After hours, or what felt like hours to Mike, the girl finally acknowledged Mike and called upon his piece, ordering forward. Teavee had no choice but to comply to her wishes. Against his will, Mike's body moved forward.

It was then Mike realized something he hadn't before: why were there three empty spaces to begin with? He supposed it could have been that they were still bring manufactured, but that seemed rather unlikely. Wouldn't it make more sense to create all of the identical pieces at once? It was almost as if Wonka was . . . _expecting _them.

Could that be it? Could Willy Wonka have possibly known that they would return to his factory in hopes of revenge while he was abroad? Or maybe he had planned the entire trip to Brazil himself hoping that they would come crawling back. It was crushing, really. All this time, Mike had tried to stay a step ahead of the chocolatier, but he had really just been playing into his hands. What kind of a genius was he?

Maybe he was overthinking things. Maybe everything was just a coincidence. _Yeah, right._ Just like it was a coincidence that the three-course gum had a flaw, or that there just happened to be a TV room in the factory, or that the furnace burned on Thursdays, the day Veruca was thrown down the garbage shoot (the furnace had been broken that day, but it didn't take a genius to see that Wonka was disappointed about that.) Why hadn't Mr. Wonka pulled the gum out of Violet's mouth, or fished Augustus from the chocolate river? Why did it take him so long to find the key to the room where Veruca was trapped, and why didn't he jump over the fence like the girl herself had done only moments before? Mike remembered when he had jumped into Wonka-vision . The man had not ordered the Oompa Loompas to stop, which would have taken absolutely no effort on his part.

Yes. It _had _to have been planned out from the beginning. There was simply no other explanation. Wonka really **was** out to get them. Mike could not honestly say that he had never suspected such a thing before, but now he was sure of it.

But Wonka had made one fatal mistake; he had underestimated his enemy and not expected Mike to figure out his plan.

In Mike's mind, the world was like a giant math equation. People were simply factors that needed to be simplified. Now that he understood what Wonka was doing he could read the man like a computer manual.

Wonks was trying to play to their weaknesses. Violet's was pride, Augustus, food. Veruca's was, of course, greed and jealousy. As for Mike? Well, even he had to admit that he was rather quick to anger. Still, now they would have time to prepare in advance. Together they would be able to give the corrupt sociopath a taste of his own medicine.

Before he could plan further, Mike was knocked off his horse.

* * *

In the _Harry Potter_ movie, if a chess piece was killed in a game it was smashed. Mike shut his eyes in case the fate was about to bestow upon him. It was then he realized that he could close his eyes. Did that mean the rest of him could move?

Mike tried flexing his fingers and delighted to feel them curl in and out. His eyes snapped open and he observed his surroundings. He was back to normal, and was not crushed. Both good things, he decided. His chocolate horse lay on the ground horizontally, so he guessed that the losing pieces were just shoved aside casually like in a real game. A good thing, he decided.

Shakily, he got to his feet, but was forced to grab hold of the wall for support, finding them aching even more than they would on a normal day. He felt oddly dizzy and a bit feverish, although he tried not to show it.

"You're welcome," Violet said.

Mike, suddenly regaining all of his strength and then some, turned around to face her. "Thank you? Are you crazy? That was the stupidest thing ever! Did you ever think about what might have happened if you lost? Or if we got stuck that way? What would you do then, huh?"

Violet rolled her eyes. "If you haven't noticed, those things _didn't _happen, so you can stop worrying about it, you big baby," her voice was kept surprisingly calm, although there was a rather dangerous edge to it. An edge that Mike promptly ignored.

Teavee laughed darkly. "Don't you see? That's what Wonka wants! He expects us to act on impulse, because it was how we got into trouble in the first place. He's trying to trick us again."

"That's ridiculous. He had no idea we were coming."

"You're wrong. That's just what he wants us to think so that we let down our guards. Don't you see, Beauregard? The man works in a pattern. He expects us to behave a certain way and so far we have fallen into his trap. We can't keep being so predictable - - not if we want to succeed."

Now it was Veruca's turn to be incredulous. "That's rubbish, is what that is. There's no way he could have possibly known. And why now of all times? Do you think that he decided to pack his bags and go to Africa just to teach us another lesson?"

"First of all, Brazil is in _South America_, you dodo. As for the trip, I don't know. Maybe he was going anyway and figured that he would have Charlie slip it out in an interview. Maybe he went as far as to go on the outing just for that designed purpose. I really don't know at this point. Knowing Wonka, anything is possible."

The girls exchanged disbelieving glances.

It was Augustus, of all people, who spoke up on Mike's behalf. " . . . I . . . I zink he may be right. You says so befores, Violet, Vonka is a madman, who really know vat he mights do?"

There was a chilling silence at that. Whether he realized it or not, Augustus's words had a great weight to them. It meant that what they were doing was no longer a game. Wonka could create things beyond their comprehension, many of which could very easily kill them. Now the children no longer were worried only about the mission succeeding, they now feared for their very lives.

* * *

**Please review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Cryptological Mystification: I know, I'm a little twisted.**

**x_Silent_Dawn_x: I know, I've read it. One of my favorite CATCF fics!**

**Fruktus_1997: Haha!**

**Dark Magical Sorcres: Eventually, yes.**

* * *

**T**he children continued to make their way through the factory, although they did so with a bit more caution than before. A chilling silence seemed to fill the air; every new room they entered could very well be a death trap.

Violet strode confidently in the front. Still somewhat embarrassed about the chess piece incident, a not wanting to look so, Mike joined her. Needless to say, this was extremely stressful for his leg muscles, but with his pride at stake, Mike managed to pull through.

At first they did not speak to each other. Violet tried to pretend he wasn't even there; but after a few short moments, she broke the silence. "You know," she said, "ferrets are related to badgers."

"Your point?"

"Badgers are known to be vicious when angry."

"I'm not scared of your pet," said Mike.

"And you shouldn't be, as long as you don't cross me."

"You think I should be concerned that you might send your ferret after me if I piss you off because it and the badger are both members of the weasel family?" he scoffed. "You argument is weak. Would you be threatened if I said I would send my kitten after you because it was a relative of the African lion? Besides," he added, "Mario could use him as a chew toy."

"Mario? Like the video game character?"

"They are called avatars, and no. At least not in the sense that you're thinking of. Although he's named after him, Mario is my dog."

"Oh." Violet got on her hands and casually did a cartwheel. After another pause, she asked, "what kind of dog?"

Mike doubted that she was really that interested, but relayed the information never the less. "A Rottweiler. They have the strongest bite of any domestic canine." He hoped his parents remembered that how Mario liked to take his medicine with peanut butter, or that he always needed a walk after dinner, or that he only liked it when people threw him sticks with their left hand, and the special spot just behind his ear that he liked scratched.

Trying to push any traces of sentimental memories out of his head, Mike instead observed Violet herself. Although she was still dressed like a tomboy, her clothes had taken on a different tone. At the factory, the only clothing she had worn had been blue, plus it had matched her creepy mother.

Now, that he was right next to her, Mike was able to see that the red pattern on her shirt was no pattern at all; it was fake blood (at least he hoped it was fake.) That, along with her torn dark jeans, practically spelled out the word "emo". Or maybe it was goth. Mike could never really tell the difference. Either way, he highly doubted that she was still copying her mother.

"We've kind of grown apart, my mother and I," Violet said, as if reading Mike's mind. Her voice was somewhat distant. Mike couldn't tell if she was even talking to him, for it seemed rather out of character for her to say. The more she spoke, the more Mike became convinced that she was not completely aware of what she was saying. "She hates me now, says I've disgraced her. That's fine. Like I give a damn. I don't need her, anyway." She clenched her hands into fists.

Mike backed away and met up with Augustus. "What's her problem?" he asked, jabbing his thumb in Beauregard's direction, just in case Augustus couldn't figure out who "her" was.

Much to Teavee's disappointment, the German boy shrugged. "I don't knows. She haz been doing zis for a vile. Her mozer alvays liked her because she vas ze only girl in her family, but after ze factory zey grew apart. She is very upset about it. Zat all I knows."

It took Mike a couple of seconds to decode the boy's dialogue, but he understood it well enough. He was in no mood to hear a girl whine about family issues. He had enough problems of his own to deal with.

"WRONG!" Violet shouted. The two boys winced, not aware that she had been listening. "Why should I care about what that ***** thinks? She's not in charge of me, you know. I'm own person and if she doesn't want to be a part of my life, well that's just fine by me." Of course, Veruca, being the insensitive prat she was, and the boys being . . . well, boys, did not understand that this rant was actually a desperate cry for help and translated roughly as, "I'm upset and think my mother hates me and am currently in an emotional crisis and need help."

With his best interest in mind, Mike lagged behind the group somewhat, making his steps even slower than they normally were. At the same time, though, his mind was working at light speed, calculating all of the possibilities of what they could be facing next. But the thing was, although Mike would never admit it, Wonka had proven to be an enemy to be reckoned with. Every time he thought that he had figured the man out, he was once again surprised.

What would be in the next room? Pudding quicksand? An army of killer jelly beans? Oompa Loompas in full battle armor? Mike didn't know what to expect anymore, finding himself struggling more than ever to differentiate between what was physically possible and just plain fantasy. It was a position that made him extremely uncomfortable. If he didn't have the rules of physics to back him up, what could he rely on? Even in his video games, the characters followed distinct patterns.

But nothing was concrete. He, of all people should have known that. Even things as simple and relevant as time itself were really complex beyond that of mere human comprehension. What if Wonka knew about some obscure or unknown law of physics which allowed him to preform the amazing tasks needed in order to run the factory? The thought scared Mike terribly. He always viewed the man as the "anti-science". A madman with foolish dreams who lived in an idiotic world where he behaved as he saw fit.

Mike stopped for a moment in his tracks. Once again, a feeling of paranoia washed over the boy. His face paled until it was a milky white color and for a moment or two, without realizing, he had actually stopped breathing. Someone or some_thing_ was after him, that much he was certain of. What could it be? More Oompa Loompas? Had Wonka come back from Brazil early and was now watching them? The only other people he saw were Augustus, Violet, and Veruca . . .

The boy suddenly snapped his head at attention. He saw Veruca whisper something Violet, who started to giggle. He just knew they were talking about him. Mike eyed the other children with obvious suspicion and distrust. They were on to him, maybe in league with Wonka themselves!

Wait, what was he doing? Those thoughts were entirely irrational! How could he even consider such things. If they had been after him from the start, they would have gotten plenty of opportunities to dispose of him before. It wouldn't make sense why they would carry out their act for so long. What did they have to gain?

Thinking about those things made him feel much more confident. Whenever he had a paranoia attack he just fought it back with logic. Yes. There was no way in hell they had sided with Wonka. _Besides,_ he added smugly to himself, _none of them would be smart enough to pull off being a double agent anyway._

Satisfied with this, he continued on. The next room they entered had a domed ceiling with a fan at the top. In the middle of the floor was a red and gray machine, which all of the children instinctively backed away from. All of the children exchanged glances, and came to the same conclusion: this room wasn't on the tour.

"Look over there!" Violet pointed off to the side where there were several bottles containing some sort of bubbling liquid. Violet picked one up and studied it. "This is definitely not coke," she decided.

"Let me see that," Mike grabbed the bottle from her and examined the label. "_Fizzy Lifting Drink_," it read. "_WARNING: not to be consumed by people with heart problems or a phobia of heights_. Hmm . . ." Mike was able to deduct what the function was by the not-at-all subtle clues. "This . . . makes you fly!"

"Give me!" Veruca cried excitedly. "I want it now!"

"No!" Mike held the bottle up, far out of her reach. "You can't have it. For all you know, the process is irreversible. Or maybe there's some 'technical difficulty' that makes you explode, or turn into a bird, or . . . AUGUST NO!"

It was too late. Mike had neglected to remember the table in the back full of bottle. Augustus was gulping down the drink like a can of Sprite. "Stop it! You MORON!"

Augustus put down the bottle, but it was too late. Only seconds later, the German boy felt himself lifting into the air. "Vat's happening?" he cried, his voice trembling in fear.

The others could only stare in shock and horror as they saw the boy float higher and higher towards the ceiling.

"Augustus!" Violet cried, "Look out, there's a fan! It'll cut you to shreds!"

Augustus looked up. "Verdammt!" he swore.

Violet turned to Mike. Were those tears in her eyes? "Mike, do something!"

"What can I do? There are no tools, nothing for him to grab onto, no off switch for the fan . . ."

"I don't know. You have to come up with something! Otherwise, he'll die up there." The look on the girl's face was pleading as she rapidly chewed her gum at a pace Mike would not have thought was humanly possible.

_Why should I help him?_ _I warned the idiot not to touch anything._ He wondered. _What has he ever done to me?_ Still, Mike, for whatever reason, tried to piece together puzzle. Not because he had a moral obligation to do so, but as a . . . challenge, yes, a challenge. He was testing his brain to think outside the box.

He would have to start at the beginning. _What would cause the floatation in the first place?_ The bubbles! _Yes, they must allow the drinker to become sufficiently buoyant, with a density even less than that of oxygen. _Which really didn't make sense, but Mike didn't have time to worry about that. Augustus had ten, fifteen seconds at best.

How does one get rid of bubbles? The answer hit him like a ton of bricks. BURPING! Burping allowed the carbon dioxide to leave the body and . . . yes, burping!

"Augustus!" Mike called. "BURP! It'll get you to come down!" He was met with an incredulous look from the others, which made him feel rather foolish. "JUST DO IT!"

Augustus, now only centimeters away from the sharp-bladed fan, complied and burped. He burped again. Slowly, his body floated down, and he eventually landed on his feet.

Violet grinned and ran up, giving him a quick hug, which she immediately retreated.

Veruca shrieked.

"What is it?"

The British girl didn't answer. She merely pointed towards the back of Augustus neck. Violet peered in for a closer look. "Oh my god," she breathed.

Mike, annoyed that no one was telling him what was going on, went to see for himself. Mike wasn't exactly sure what he was expecting, but this certainly wasn't it. The fan had grazed his skin, leaving the back of his neck covered in blood.

Mike had played enough video games and seen enough television to become all but desensitized to any sort of bloody injury. At least that was what he thought. Something about seeing Augustus's condition, even though he told himself that the boy deserved it, was a . . . rather unsettling sight for him.

He tried to look like he didn't care. "Come on, let's go," he ordered, marching forward. "We're not going to get anywhere at this rate." Mike expected a series of protests and complaint, but the others simply nodded and silently followed him. This struck him as somewhat odd. Why would they follow him? It wasn't like he was their leader or anything.

* * *

The room they stopped in was full of cages. Inside of those cages were hundreds and hundreds of . . . crows. Mike suspected that there might have been a couple of ravens and even a few magpies and jays amongst them (what? His dad liked to go bird watching!) but were overwhelmingly crows. The bird's feathers were covered in polka dots of blue and purple. Mike wasn't sure if that was natural or not (perhaps a mutation or even just painted on) but decided not to press the matter. The birds surveyed the children with a look their eyes that was all too human.

Skippy, the ferret, scurried around Violet's shirt nervously.

"Come on, let's get out of here. This place is creeping me out."

Suddenly, without warning, a large bird swooped down to them, landing right in front of Mike. Somehow, the animal had escaped its cage. Now that the bird was right in front of them, the children realized this was no ordinary crow. Aside from their odd spots, the animal was easily the size of Mike's dog, if not bigger.

_Friend or foe?_ a voice demanded. It spoke in a tone that seemed emotionless, but not quite robotic.

"Um . . ." Mike said dumbly, realizing that it was in fact the bird who was talking to him. The beak did not move, and voice seemed telepathic.

"Friend," Violet said.

The bird glared at her. _Why do you enter our territory, human? _The animal spat out the word "human" as if it was the most vile insult it could think of. The intelligence in its yes was quite apparent. It seemed to be studying them with a mind that worked at light speed.

"How can it talk?" Veruca demanded. "It's a bird."

The crow, without warning, swooped over to the British girl and landed on her head. _Are you in league with the one who calls himself "Wonka"? _By the tone of the creature's voice, or rather lack of it, it was impossible to tell whether this was a good thing or a bad thing.

Everyone looked at Mike. "We . . . know of him," was the boy's response, careful to sound as neutral as possible.

_ What about the smaller one with the light mane?_

The children exchanged glances, none of them knew who he was talking about.

Only Violet was brave enough (or rather, stupid enough) to speak. "Who are you talking about?"

_If you do not know him, then I will not betray his trust. _He left it at that.

"Vy do yous 'ave purple circles?" asked Augustus. (Not knowing the English word for spots.)

The bird turned its head, as if just noticing the German child for the first time. He flew off on the girl's head and landed in front of Augustus._ Why not? Why is your mane orange?_ It asked. Did the bird have a sense of humor? Mike wondered.

"Touché," said Violet, grinning. "I like him."

Veruca raised her hand as if in school, seemingly much more at ease with the animal now that it was off of her head, although she wisely kept her distance. When the bird cast a look in her direction, she took it as permission to speak. "Don't take this the wrong way, um, Mr. Bird, but, what exactly are you? I mean, your species?"

_ We are solitary creatures known as the Hornswogglers. _

Hornswagglers . . . Hornswagglers. Where did Mike know that name from? He exchanged glances with Violet, who seemed to have the same expression on her face, like the name was at the tip of her tongue.

"I got it!" he said suddenly. "Loompa Land! You and the vicious Whangdoodles and . . . and . . . Snozzwagers."

_Snozzwangers. And that's a lie! None of us are vicious! The Snozzwangers and Hornswagglers are predators. As are humans, are you not? The Whangdoodles would never hurt a fly. Where have you been getting these lies from, humans?_

"Mr. Wonka told us," said Veruca, not thinking (as usual.)

_That REGNAST! I should have known he would be spreading false rumors. Tell me, humans, where does he currently reside?_

"In this factory. Well, right now he's abroad with his accomplice, Charlie Bucket."

_Yes, I know Master Charlie. An idiotic, but well-meaning boy. In my territory he would not have survived past infancy. We do not tolerate such weakness._

"If you don't like Wonka . . . then why are you here?"

The bird's head snapped attention. The look in its eyes was dangerous . . . almost **murderous**. Mike couldn't help but shudder._ Do you think I am here of my own free will, human? I was captured and dragged away from my territory like a common Kornsnak. I was then trapped in a room with my brothers, where we were told we would be subjected to numerous experiments, justified by our attempts to devour the Oompa Loompas. Odd and unnatural foods were shoved down our throats by our former prey. _The voice did not speak with any emotion, but rather simply declared these statements as facts. _Sometimes Wonka would accompany them, but most of the time his workers were left to their own devices. We were treated slightly better when he was present, for Wonka, although despised us he did, seemed to want to keep us alive. The Oompa Loompas were not nearly as merciful. Some of us developed useful defense mechanisms. I gained the ability of human speech, and was then appointed alpha. We have not been visited by Wonka in days; we were hoping he had a gruesome death. A smaller one had come more recently. I do not know what has become of him either._

"Was that the boy you were talking about before?"

_ Yes. _

"Can you tell us his name?"

_ Yes._

There was a pause. "_Will _you tell us his name?"

_ No. _

Well, this was getting nowhere. "Alright," Mike said, "just one more question: do you know where the chocolate room is?"

Where the edible poisons is manufactured? No. I have never stepped a talon outside of this room. And most likely, neither will you."

"Excuse me?"

_We Hornswagglers respect the strong. In order to pass, you must prove yourselves to be so._

"Wait, but that doesn't make any sense!" Veruca protested. "We're on the same side as you, we're also against Wonka. Why don't you let us through?"

_Be that as it may, we do not make exceptions. The other human, the small on, asked us the same question. Our captives have power over us, so they may come and go as they please. Prove that you are worthy and you may exit. Prove you are weak, and . . . you will cease to live. Now, attack, my brothers and sisters. ATTACK!_

* * *

**Thank you to everybody who gave me suggestions. I would not have been able to do this chapter without you! If you have any more feel free to tell me. **

**So what did you think of the Hornswagglers? Who was that mysterious boy mentioned? Will they get out alive? Why am I asking all these questions? **

**Please review! (Or else I will send the Hornswagglers after you!)**


	8. Chapter 8

**x_Silent_Dawn_x: Thank you, I'm so glad you like it. Sorry to keep you waiting for so long.**

**Cryptozoological Mystification: An interesting idea. You'll find out in a few chapters if you were right.**

**Fruktus_1997: Agreed. Although it should be noted that he doesn't seem to realize what he's doing is horrible. Of course, that is no excuse.**

**Author's Note: Sorry I've been gone so long. The last story I updated was Dead End, and even that hasn't been touched for . . . (does quick calculations) . . . a week . . . okay, I guess that's not so long. I feel better now.**

**For Honors English I actually wrote an essay about why Willy Wonka is an evil man. I may put it up on this site if you guys want.**

* * *

**T**he Hitchcock film _The Birds_ came to mind as Mike began running. He had never found that movie particularly frightening, not nearly as much as _Psycho _anyway. But now, as he was chased by the giant evil crow, he could understand where the horror came from.

His legs felt as if they were on fire, but Mike did not dare stop or even slow down. He kept on going, ignoring the burning sensation the best that he could. Augustus was slightly ahead of him, and Veruca trailed close behind.

But wait . . . where was Violet?

"Hey, jerk? You want a piece of me? Take that, HYAH!" the little girl lifted her leg and swung her entire body around in a kung-foo style kick. The bird merely stepped aside, looking rather bored with her antics.

_Are you quite done?_ He asked, calmly preening his feathers.

Violet stared in shock, not used to people merely dodging her martial arts moves like child's play. Mike noticed that her face flushed purple. Did that mean her blood had been replaced by juice? He shuddered involuntarily.

His suspicions were confirmed when the bird suddenly pounced on top of Violet, scrapping her with its talons, leaving large streaks down her arm.

Augustus's eyes widened in horror as he saw the fate befalling his friend. "Nicht!" he cried. Before any of the others could stop him or even voice their protest, Augustus popped a tiny candy into his mouth, and with what seemed like lightning speed, raced his way over to Violet. He and the monster seemed in engage in some sort of tug-of-war game, while poor Violet screamed in horror and pain. Eventually, with all of the strength she could manage, Violet punched the bird in the eye. It squawked in pain and release Violet who quickly scrambled to safety.

But the Hornswaggler was not out of tricks yet, not by far. Without warning, hundreds of birds flew free from their cages and surrounded the four children with murderous looks in their eyes.

It was then Mike remembered something. He tried to reach back, but his hands could grab hold of the his bag. And there would be no time to take off the backpack and dig through it "Veruca," Mike whispered urgently. "Look in my bag. Do I still have the stuff?"

"N-no," she replied, whimpering like a cornered puppy. "I used it all on the Oompa Loompas."

"ALL of it?" he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was the girl really so stupid that she would waste all of their resources in five minutes? If they ever made it out of there alive, he would strangle her. "The spray AND the stun guns?"

Veruca looked at him as if he were crazy. "What stun guns?" she asked, appearing genuinely confused. Mike wondered what was sitting between her ears, because it most certainly was not brain.

At this point he was about ready to bang his head against the wall. "The ones we bought online last week," he hissed through clenched teeth. His entire body shook with fury. That stupid, _stupid _girl! But there was no time to fume. No, he would have to do that later. "Just grab it!" he ordered.

She still seemed lost. "But I don't –"

Violet groaned, "Oh, movie it!" she said exasperatedly, pushing the British girl out of the way. Mike smiled in spite of himself. He had to admit, that girl had spunk.

Violet reached into the bag, felt around for a couple of seconds and grabbed the gun, but refused to hand it to Mike. "I know what I'm doing," she insisted.

"No! It's mine!" he shouted angrily, losing what little self control he had left. "You can't use it!" Violet promptly ignored him. "Give it over, BLUEBERRY GIRL!" he cried, attempting to grab the device. The birds were practically on top of them, and Violet had to kick one away. This, however, did not work and only seemed to further infuriate the animal, who squawked loudly.

Her head spun around, sending her pigtails flying into his face. Mike gagged and spluttered, but tried to snatch it again. For a moment he met her eyes, and saw Violet smirk slyly. Before he could even figure out what the smile was for, he felt an strong impact, immediately followed by excruciating pain. Mike yelped. A blow had been taken directly between his legs in his most sensitive spot. Violet laughed as his knees buckled, causing him to fall over.

The next few minutes seemed to be a blur, as Mike tried to recover from the painful attack on his genitals. Even time he attempted to get up, he would just fall down again.

At some point, the lead bird attacked him, and Mike was powerless to defend himself. But instead of maiming him, the bird merely sneered. _I would have expected better from you. You do not even put up a fight._

Mike muttered some unintelligible response.

_You intrigue me, though. I took a particular fascination in your story. I am almost sorry to have to destroy you now. _

"Wait!" Mike wheezed.

_Speak up, human. If you have a good reason for me not to kill you, now would be the time to say it._

Mike desperate scanned his mind, trying desperately to think of something. But, for once, his brain failed him, and he drew up blank.

When the bird saw that he did not respond, he said, _I thought not. Now prepare to face your doom. _The bird held out his talon and raked it across Mike's chest. Instinctively, he held his arm out in defense. He screamed in pain as the limb was torn open, and hot red blood poured down his arm.

Once again the bird attempted to claw Mike, this time aiming for his throat. It was then something truly remarkable happened. Looking back on it, Mike was never able to explain it, for the action, no matter how much he tried, could never be duplicated.

He could practically feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, in a split second before the talon touched him, Mike rolled out of the way, and then hopped to his feet, shouting in a high pitched voice and stereotypical Italian accent, "MARIO!"

Then, as if a born gymnast, he proceeded to jump, twirl, and duck the next few attacks, managing to dodge almost every one of them.

For a moment, even the bird stopped. At first, it seemed to be showing grudging respect towards his moves, but then Mike realized it was really just finding out his pattern, so that he would know when to strike.

As the last few moments finally seemed to catch up with him, Mike collapsed onto the ground, too exhausted to move another muscle. He closed his eyes and prepared for his doom.

Mike had learned about what supposedly happens after death in Sunday school. His family was never particularly religious, so he only went when his parents remembered to take him, which was not often. That had been fine by him, seeing as he was a borderline atheist anyway and never really bought into all that spiritual stuff. His visits to Sunday school had come to an abrupt end after an incident involving a broom handle and evolution. They had asked him kindly to leave and never come back.

Of all ways to die, it seemed kind of ironic that his downfall would be at the hands (or rather, talons) of a giant, mutant bird.

_Will death hurt?_ He wondered. Mike hoped not, he was in enough pain as it was, the prospect of death almost seemed inviting. _I'll find out soon enough,_ he figured. It would be any moment now. But he would not be afraid. He would face his death with quiet dignity.

"Mommy!" he moaned.

For a mere moment, there was nothing but silence. Or at least, what appeared to be silence. As Mike strained his ears, he could just make out a faint clicking noise. No, not clicking. It sounded more like chuckling.

The quiet, childish laughter seemed to fill the room in an eerie tone. Nobody seemed quite sure what to do about it.

Even the birds seemed hesitant to attack. In fact, the birds looked a bit intimidated. If there was something out there that intimidated those monsters, Mike really did not want to know what it was.

"Oh, god, just kill me now," he whispered to no one in particular.

The chuckling grew louder, now with a more confident tone. It was then a small head peeked out of Violet's purse pocket. "Skippy!" she cried. Before se could protest, the little weasel jumped out of her pocket and ran over to the Hornswagglers, nipping at their heels (if birds had heels.)

The monsters exchanged glances, as if not sure what to do. Finally, the leader stepped forward. _You may proceed through those doors, _he motioned his head towards the doors at the other end of the room.

"I don't understand. You said we had to prove ourselves worthy."

_And you have . . . or at least,_ he _has_, again, it indicated to the ferret, _proven himself worthy of passing through. Such creatures are revered in our land. He looked at Violet. You will do well to treat him as such._

The children turned to leave, wondering what exactly the creature had meant. Just before going, however, Mike turned around and faced the beast. He wasn't exactly sure what compelled him to do so, his hand was already on the knob, but for some reason he felt the need to ask the question. "Do you have name?" the words came out before he could think of what they meant.

For a long while, the bird just looked at him. Mike returned the glance in an unofficial staring contest. Realizing the pointlessness of the whole thing, not to mention that the creature could change his mind and kill him in a second, Mike turned the knob and stepped through the door.

_Misforstått._

"What?"

My name is _Misforstått_. He repeated.

Mike nodded and followed the others out of the room.

* * *

"Who's good boy, Skippy?! You is! You is! You are the bestest ferret in the whole world, yes you are!" The small animal chuckled contently at the praise, happily accepting the treats he was offered.

"But I still don't understand: why were they afraid of the ferret but not of us? I mean, we're bigger, and stronger, and a load smarter!"

Violet made a coughing noise that sounded awfully like "I beg to differ". Mike couldn't help but hide a small smirk of amusement.

"I may have been his territorial instincts. I suppose they respect that kind of behavior," Mike reasoned, thinking more aloud than talking to anyone in particular. He personally viewed the whole experience as rather surreal and oddly nauseating. He had to think back to remember why exactly they were in the factory in the first place, for their original intentions had long escaped his mind.

The next room they entered came as a shock even to them. It appeared o be a combination of an office, a candy shop, and an oversized child's bedroom. Mike could only guess it was Charlie's quarters. The room had a large bed beside a fairly modest-looking side table. On the table, was an alarm clock, a box of tissues, and a photograph of himself, looking like the happiest boy in the world, and an old man, who Mike remembered as Bucket's grandfather from the tour. Beside the two in the photograph, in all his freaky gettup, was none other than Willy Freakin' Wonka himself.

A mini-fridge and a bookshelf laid against the wall, and beside them a desk. The desk had candy cane legs and was covered in files and more pictures of himself and his family.

Mike decided to go through the desk drawer, perhaps there would be something of use to him. Sure enough, lying (stupidly unlocked) inside was a diary. Not a jornal, a _diary_, for that was what it read in big letter on the cover. A purple one at that. Mike laughed. What a geek!

Instinctively he flipped it open at random and began examining the pages.

_4/21/06_

_ What a great day! Mr. Wonka came up with a brilliant idea for a tiny candy that explodes in your mouth! What a wonderful idea. We tested it on an Oompa Loompa (although, I must admit, I feel sort of bad for doing so) and it worked just fine. _

_ So far, we have five flavors: lime, blue raspberry, coconut, snozzberry, and (of course) chocolate! _

_ 4/23/06 _

_ Mum thinks I should keep up with my studies and is considering hiring me a tutor. Mr. Wonka dislikes the idea of another stranger coming into the factory. _

_I taught the Oompa Loompa's how to play football. It was a bit tricky at first, but they're getting the hang of it. We play in this area of the candy room that it all mint grass. We had to scale down the ball of course, because they're so small, which makes it a bit more difficult for me to play, but I'm learning. Wally is an excellent goalie!_

_4/24/06_

_ Sales are on a record high. Wonka says it's because of my good work, but I think he's just being modest. _

Mike felt as if he were about to vomit. Still, he read on, knowing that the information was far too useful to pass up.

There rest of the entries were just about as cheerful as the first few he looked at. It made Mike sick. Soon his annoyance turned to rage. It was so unfair!

Unable to take it anymore, Mike let out a scream that sounded like a gorilla battle cry and began tearing pages out of the diary. Next he knocked the files off of the desk and screamed some more. He threw the photos to the ground and watched the picture frames shatter. He swore repeatedly, completely unaware of the others watching him fearfully (except for Augustus, who was immersed in the ice cream machine.)

Stupid, stupid Charlie! It wasn't fair! That kid only got where he was by luck. He wasn't rich, or well-connected, or smart, or even particularly ambitious. No, he was just a dirt poor kid who scored high completely by chance. _Even the others, even Veruca, Violet, and Augustus, _he realized, _they at least did _some _work to earn their ticket. Charlie did nothing. He just found a freakin' dollar in the street and struck gold _(**a/n: no pun intended.**)

Mike ran over to the bed and banged his head against it repeatedly. He banged and banged until he saw stars in front of his eyes. Everything was wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! How was it that he got stuck in this hellish place with such a sorry excuse for a group?

Augustus, now finally taking note of Mike's actions, began shouting in German. (His face was still covered in ice cream, so even if Mike had been looking, it would have been hard to take the boy seriously.) "Sind Sie verrückt? Was zum Teufel machst du da?"

Violet was the only one who dared to approach Mike in his chaotic state. "Pull yourself together, Teavee! We have bigger problems to worry about. If you haven't noticed, the door's freaking locked!"

This, of course, did nothing to calm him down. If anything, it only made Mike more nervous. Frantically, he ran up to the door and tried the knob for himself. He cussed and stomped his foot when it wouldn't work. Mike let out yet another scream that made it sound as if he were in the taffy stretcher all over again.

It was not long before the others, too, began to break down. After all, one can only stand so much of the antics of an insane chocolatier for so long. Only Violet seemed to remain relatively calm. She walked over to the door once again and with a loud, "HIYA!" attempted to break down the door with a karate-style kick. It did not work., so she tried again. And when that attempt failed, she kicked yet again, harder than she ever had before. She kicked and kicked until she drew blood, until her big toe was sticking out at an odd angle, but the door did not budge. It was then she heard the footsteps.

"Hello?" came a voice. "Hello, who's there?"

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**Please review. As always, constructive criticism and suggestions for future chapters are welcome.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Cryptozoological Mystification: Maybe . . .**

**The_Disnerd: Thanks, glad you like it.**

**Fruktus_1997: To be fair, he had been the only one to obey the rules. Although Wonka never tempted Charlie with anything. It seems to me that the contest was rigged from the start. My story attempted to show a different side of the story and by doing so I had to create three dimensional personalities to two dimensional characters. My goal was to prove that things are rarely black and white, and while these kids may be far from perfect (in fact, most of them were downright brats) they still suffered in ways that nobody, let alone a child should. Seeing your comment, it is apparent that I at least partially succeeded in doing so. Long story short, thanks for the review, sorry for the lecture.**

**Peter_1312: Thank you.**

**Author's notes: Sorry it took me so long to update, and I realize this is a short(er) chapter, barely reaching over 2,000 words. I will try to update more frequently and keep the chapters longer. In the meantime, please enjoy this one and, as always, leave a comment at the end. This chapter ends on sort of a dark note that differs from my normal cliff hangers. I would like to know what people thought about that in particular. **

* * *

"Someone's coming!" Violet cried in a loud whisper. Instantly, all the kids scrambled for cover. Mike and Veruca hid in the closet, Augustus under the bed, and Violet managed to squeeze into a large desk drawer.

Mike fought with Veruca for the crack of the door. Veruca won. He heard a woman (he could tell it was a woman because of the light footsteps) enter the room. Veruca said that she was carrying a pile of laundry so high that it blocked her face. "Charlie," the woman called. She spoke in a lower class British accent. "Charlie, is that you, Dear? I thought you were off with Mr. Wonka in Brazil."

"Now she's putting down the pile," Veruca whispered, "she's wiping her brow and . . . oh my god!"

Mike heard the sound of two women screaming. One was the lady, the other, Veruca. He shot her a look. "What was that for?" Mike hissed.

Veruca shuddered. "You didn't see her hair. It's hideous!"

She uttered those words a bit louder than Mike would have preferred. Fortunately, as luck would have it, Charlie's mother (for that's who Mike assumed she was,) was far too caught up in her own horror to notice the comment about her appearance.

"Shut up!" he hissed, elbowing her in the ribs. Veruca scowled at him, but complied.

Mike shoved his way past Veruca and peered through the crack himself. The woman was about thirty-five years old. She had curly, black hair that came just above her shoulders. Her large, gray eyes were caring and intelligent, although at the moment they appeared (understandably) absolutely terrified as she glanced around her son's vandalized room. Mrs. Bucket frantically began searching the drawers, as if to make sure that everything was still there. She stopped at the sight of Charlie's diary. Her lower lip trembled slightly. For a moment, Mike thought she was about to cry. Fortunately for him, she didn't. Mrs. Bucket swallowed her tears and exited the room in a hurry.

"Come on," Mike said, once her footsteps had died away. "We have to get out of here."

"Vy?" asked Augustus, coming out from under the bed. "She is gone, no?"

"Use your common sense! I'll bet you anything that she went to go get her husband or a group of Oompa Loompas to search the place for burglars." Inwardly, Mike scolded himself for not thinking this through. Of **course** the Bucket family would be present, even if Charlie and Wonka themselves were not. This was where they lived now, after all. Once again, Mike felt a pang of jealousy and indignation, although he didn't understand why. What were the Buckets to him? Why did he care that they won the stupid prize? It was just a dumb tour. He hated chocolate anyway, so who gave a damn? **_I_**_ do, that's who, _he thought bitterly. And Mike hated himself for that.

* * *

"I don't understand how we're going to get out of here. We can't get through the door."

"Maybe there's a hidden entrance or something. Like in movies." It seemed like a long shot, but at this point, Mike was just about ready to believe anything.

The other gave him a strange look, but began to search the room anyway. Sure enough, just behind the bed, there was a square carved into the wall. It was painted the same color and was nearly invisible, but it was there nonetheless.

"I'll be honest," he said. "I did not think that we'd find anything."

Tentively, as if afraid the wall might bite him, Mike gave the carving a light touch. When nothing happened, Veruca rolled her eyes and Violet pushed the others out of the way. Choosing to take a more direct approach, she punched the wall, pushing the square further inside and revealing yet another secret compartment. This was the size of a modest hotel bedroom, which offered enough space for them all to step inside.

Of course, Teavee was too clever to do such a thing. He knew better than to keep all his eggs in one basket. "Someone should stay behind," said Mike, his eyes scanning the group, "Just in case."

Augustus immediately raised his hand. "I vill do it," he said, his chest puffing out.

Teavee nodded curtly, "Good." He said, "Augustus, you stay here, Violet, Veruca, you follow me."

The girls trailed silently behind them as they entered the new room. There was a single door at the end. Instinctively, despite knowing in his heart that it was useless, Mike ran over and tugged at its handle. And just as he expected, it did not even budge.

"Hey, look at this!" Veruca called. The others joined her and followed the girl's eyes. She was studying a device attached to the wall; it looked like a scale of some sort. A single key lay upon it, seemingly without any extra protection. _Perhaps Wonka had thought the secret wall would be enough._ Mike laughed bitterly. No, that was not Wonka's style. He looked up and examined the contraption. His eyes scanned he area around the key. Hundreds of cables were connected, no doubt in some erratic Rube Goldberg device that would malfunction at the slightest touch and turn them all into marshmallows . . . or whatever.

"Don't touch it!" he ordered the others. The girls had seemed to pick up on Wonka's pattern at this point, and were both cleverly keeping their distance from the alien device.

As Mike continued to observe it, he couldn't help but feel that the whole situation felt oddly familiar. A scale, a key . . . where had he seen this before?

"Raiders of the Lost Ark!" Mike shouted suddenly, causing both Violet and Veruca to jump back in alarm.

"Yes . . ." Violet said hesitantly, as if waiting for him to get to the point. "That is a movie."

"No, no. This is just like _Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark_. There's a scene where they need to get a key, but if they take it, it will set off a trap."

"So what did he do?"

"He . . . he . . . replaced the key with something that weighed the same amount. Yes!" the girls could practically see the gears turning in Mike's head.

"But how will we know how much the key weighs?" she asked.

Mike stopped. He hadn't thought of that. Still, determined not to give up, he studied the key from every possible angle, but not daring to touch it.

"It's gold," Veruca said. Violet and Mike's heads snapped back to look at her. "Trust me, I know. I own enough of it." She made her way closer to the scale and studied it in a similar fashion as Mike had done mere moments before. Then Veruca, to the shock of her two counterparts, ran her fingers down the key. "This is incredible. 24 carat gold," she mused. There was a greedy look in her eye, and for a moment Mike feared that she might break her end of the bargain and snatch the key for herself. Luckily, there was some brain under that thick skull of hers. Although what she said next truly surprised the others. "It costs a little over thirty pounds by the gram. It's actually measured in Troy ounces, but that's besides the point." The others all turned and gaped at her, astounded expressions on their faces. For not the first time since he had reentered the factory, Mike found himself at a loss for words. Veruca rolled her eyes in annoyance. "What? I need to make sure I'm not being ripped off at the shopping centers! A girl needs her jewelry, after all."

"Gold weighs 208.11 grams via volume. And a gram weighs about 0.035274 ounces. There are sixteen ounces in a pound . . . this is key is a skeleton key **(a/n: no, I'm not making that up. It's a type of key. Think of the giant, old-fashioned ones) **and they weigh, like, what? Well, don't look at me, how the hell would I know?" Mike began thinking aloud. Without anything to write with, he resorted to mumbling and using his fingers. After more than ten minutes of counting and cussing, he reached an answer, looking extremely exhausted.

Violet raised an eyebrow. She looked as if she were trying not to laugh. "You do realize that I have a calculator on my phone, right?"

"DAMN IT!"

* * *

Several swearwords and arguments later, the trio arrived at a conclusion at the key weighed roughly 8.26 ounces, a little bit more than half a pound. "We need something that weighs roughly two hundred and thirty-five grams."

"What do we have that can measure up to that weight?"

"What are you talking about?" Violet asked.

"Well, if we want to use the key, we'll have to replace to with something that weighs just as much. Haven't you seen the movie?"

"I've seen the movie," Violet said, putting her hands on her hips. "I just fail to see the point in this. I mean, why go through the trouble? Why not just have someone put their hand on the scale and apply an equal amount of pressure while another person opens the door?"

Even Mike had to admit, the idea did make sense. But he pushed that thought out of his mind. "Because . . . because that's not what Indiana Jones did!"

Veruca stepped forward. "Is that what you think this is?" she demanded. "Is this like a movie to you, or some giant video game? This is real life, Teavee! You can't press escape and start over! And if 'that's not what Indian Jones did' is your best reason not to try this out, then you're completely mental."

Violet scowled. "I can fight my own battles, thank you very much," she said coldly.

Mike was in shock. Veruca had probably said more intelligent things in that room than over the entire two-week period they had spent in her house. "Fine," he said, "we'll try your stupid idea. Augstus," he called out, "get over here!"

The boy obliged and made his way over to the others.

"Who's going to put his hand on the scale?" Veruca asked nervously. "Not me!" she added hastily, holding up her hands, as if in self defense from some imaginary monster.

"Whoever does will have to run to the door extremely fast before it closes," Mike mused. There was no way he was doing any more running that day, so that left him out of the picture. "Violet, since it was your brilliant idea, YOU can put your hand on the scale while we all escape."

He expected Beauregard to protest, but instead she nodded. "Fine, you guys run along, I'm not scared."

Mike searched for any quiver in her voice, or hesitation to respond. There were none. Violet spoke with the utmost confidence and composure, as if it were a perfectly normal thing to do. For some reason this annoyed Mike to no end. So the boy simply shrugged and muttered. "It's your funeral."

Violet frowned. "I thought you **wanted **me to stay behind. Now you're suddenly changing your mind?"

"No!" she wasn't getting it at all. "No, that's not even remotely close. I said I wanted us to follow my plan, which is far superior and much, _much _more practical than yours. But because you insisted, we're going to try it out your way, and if you die, then we try mine." The words rolled off his tongue casually, as if he was commenting on the weather.

Violet flinched ever so slightly at the comment before gathering her composure once again. Still, the very fact that she was uncomfortable, if only for a second, made Mike grin. Yes, he could bear with everything that was going on, as long as he wasn't the only one who suffered in the end. It was like they said, misery needs company. And if Mike was going to burn in hell, well then he would drag every last poor soul down into the dark abyss right along with him.

* * *

**I apologize for getting so technical in this chapter. *Shurgs* Guess my mind is still on Mathleetes (that's right I'm on Mathleetes, don't judge me!)**

**I notice that a lot of people follow and favorite this story, which is great, don't get me wrong. But I would like to know what you found interesting in the writing so that I can add more of it. I realize it's annoying when an author keeps telling you to review, but, well . . . REVIEW! *puppy face* Pretty please?**


	10. Chapter 10

**Fruktus97: I agree (and so does Mike!)**

**Sidney Morris: I'm a girl and fourteen, but began this when I was thirteen. I'm sorry you didn't like the taffy stretcher part, but it was my intent to make the reader feel uncomfortable. Anyway, I'm glad you like this story overall.**

**AWESOME: Thanks for reviewing, I'm sorry I couldn't get this up sooner.**

**kitty_painter_artist: Thank you so much!**

**Peter_1312: Glad you liked it.**

**Anonymous: Thanks, that means a lot to me.**

**Anna Bliss aka Ivy B: Thank you.**

**Author's note: Yes, I realize it's been a while. In my defense, my school day lasts until 6:00 and I am also on choir, mathleetes, debate, and the school play. Ironically, the play this year is Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. It's the 1971 version, but still. I'm Veruca in it, which is strange because I don't think I'm much like her, although it is a fun part to play (I get to scream and punch things, which is always fun.)**

* * *

Violet had a look of pure determination of her face. Mike wasn't sure if he had done the right thing or the wrong thing by egging her on. Oh well, who cared? It wasn't like it mattered if he hurt the little brat's feelings. She was nothing to him.

Beauregard placed her hand on top of the scale, carefully applying a direct amount of pressure that would equal that of the key. She nodded in Veruca's direction. The British girl got the hint and took the key with trembling hands.

"Oh, come on!" Violet moaned. "Hurry up. It's not going to explode on you!"

Mike ordered everybody to clear out. He turned to Violet. "Last chance to back down and admit that my plan is better."

The purple girl growled like a rabid dog, responding just as he expected she would. "In your dreams, Teavee!"

The boy merely shrugged, at least he could say that she was warned. It wasn't his problem if she wanted to be stupid and not follow his obviously superior plan. Mike exited with the others and stood outside of the door. He told Violet that if she didn't want them leaving without her, she'd have to go right then.

Beauregard complied, taking her hand off of the scale and running for the door.

For a moment, time seemed to slow down to an unrealistic speed. Violet pumped her legs, but it was obvious she would not make it. The door was more than halfway closed.

"Nein!" Augustus cried, jumping towards the door. He tripped and fell face flat on the ground, but he was determined. Augustus stuck out his leg, wedging it between the door and the ground. The boy cried out in pain, swearing rapidly in German. Slowly, he shifted his body until his hands held up the door. His hands shook from the immense pressure and he was sweating profusely from the ordeal. "Go!" he cried, although it sounded more like a squeak.

"Is there enough room?" Veruca asked, peering under the door. Violet seemed to be examining the space herself.

"I'll be fine," she said. Still, Mike could tell her voice was shaking. "How much longer can you hold for, Augustus?"

"Not long! Please, hurry!"

Mike watched in interest. There was no way she could possibly fit through such a small opening. It was physically impossible! Of course, he of all people should have known that the normal laws of science did not apply in the factory. Or, more likely, he was just in denial.

Teavee saw as Violet exhaled slowly, growing thinner and thinner by the second. - -No, not thinner - - _flatter!_ He body was slowly losing depth as she let out all of the oxygen until she was about as thick as an average element school textbook! Mike's eyes widened in horror as he saw this. It was just one more thing that contradicted his beliefs.

"How did you do that?" he demanded, scrutinizing her from head to toe. "Nobody can do that!"

She shrugged, although adverted her eyes. "I'm extremely flexible."

"No!" Mike refused to accept such an answer. This was wrong. This was not natural! "No one is _that_ flexible. You practically made yourself into a pancake and expect us all just to stand here and act like it's nothing? I demand an answer, Beauregard!"

"You can't_ demand _anything from me! You're not the boss of the world. I am my own person, so shut it, Teavee!"

"It has nothing to do with you being your own person, I—"

"Shh!" Veruca said. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Listen."

Mike strained is ears. Sure enough, he heard it too: the sound of a river running in the distance. A waterfall too by the sound of it. Could it be? Had they actually reached their destination? There was one way to find out.

The children rushed into the room. Mike was in the lead. Ignoring the burning sensation in his straining muscles, Mike pushed himself to pump his legs and go further. Entering the room, found the candy themed chamber with the chocolate river flowing through the middle. Never before had he been so incredibly glad to see so much chocolate.

"YES!" he shouted in triumph. Mike pumped his fists and jumped up and down like a little kid. "YES! YES! YES!"

He had made it. He had actually made it. For a moment, Mike had the urge to run up and hug the others. An urge which he quickly surpressed.

Wasting no time, Teavee rushed to the river, pulling the poison out of his bag and poured the entire thing in. Mike watched gleefully as it melted into the chocolate, soon to be in thousands of candy bars all over the world.

He was so caught up in his victory, that Mike didn't even notice that the others had eerily fallen silent.

"_Kto idet?_" a voice demanded. Mike jumped, nearly dropping his backpack into the river.

He turned around, ready to face the mysterious voice with everything he had. Mike stood up and . . . found himself staring at a boy who couldn't have been older than thirteen. "Who are you?" he demanded.

The boy looked at Mike with large, gray eyes. His blond hair fell into his eyes and was slightly shaggy, as if he hadn't had a haircut in a long time. The boy had a sickly thin frame and his clothes hung loosely over his body.

He spoke in a quiet voice that slowly grew more confident. It sounded as if English was his second language. "I . . . I am Vladik Alexeyevich Belinsky. I am the fifth golden teeket winner."

"No you're not," Veruca said. "Charlie Bucket is. Everybody knows that!"

The boy's shoulder sagged, but he said nothing.

Mike vaguely remembered a story in the newspaper about a boy in Russia who faked finding a golden ticket. Could it have been him? Teavee surveyed the boy once again through squinted eyes. Somehow he had never imagined the boy to be so . . . scrawny.

"How did you do it?" Violet asked.

Leonid blinked, appearing confused. "Do vat?"

She rolled her eyes as if it were obvious. "How did you fake the ticket? What did you use? How did they find out it wasn't real?"

Vladik's eyes moved to the ground and he shuffled his feet awkwardly. He looked pale, as if he were about to faint. Finally, he mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, "He said they vould not find out."

"Who?"

He looked up, eyes now tearing up slightly. The boy's lower lip trembled and he looked as if he was about to cry. Mike hoped he wouldn't, he'd experienced enough emotion in this trip for a lifetime. Luckily for Mike, Vladik gathered himself and spoke. "He promised me. He promised that he vould make me rich."

The main question still remained. "Who?"

"The man. He spoke to me in perfect Russian even though he said he was from New Zealand. He said that his name vas Slugworth, Arthur Slugworth, I think. He said . . . he said that if I could get heem an everlasting gobstopper that he would do it. He promised no one would know it was fake. But . . . but he lied." Vladik's lower lip trembled again.

Mike supposed that the moral thing would be to have pity for the boy, but he couldn't make himself feel for the boy. It seemed that Veruca was equally unmoved by Vladik's hardships.

"Look, Vlady," said Violet. "Can I call you that? Whatever," she replied before Leonid was given a chance to answer. "I'm going to call you that anyway. You're not really our concern at the moment. We need to know how to get out here."

"_YA ne znayu!_ I do not knows."

"What do you mean, 'you don't know'? if you found a way in, you must be able to find a way out."

The boy started sobbing. "I do not know! I've been 'ere nearly two veeks. I cannot find a vay out."

"Two weeks?" Mike was incredulous. "Wait, that's impossible. How would you eat?" Stupid question. "Oh, never mind. Still, hasn't anyone found you?"

Vlady nodded. "The leetle men. I do not know who they are, but I alvays hides from them. Every time I tries to _bezhat__ʹ_. . . um . . . escape, I find them. I do not leave any more."

"So you've just been hiding in here for days?"

The boy nodded sadly. "Da."

Veruca groaned. "Well, I don't see what the problem is. Our mission's accomplished. Now all we have to do is get out of here before someone finds us. The rest of you can come if you want, or you can stay in this hellhole, I really don't care one way or the other." She walked over to where the door was, only find nothing there but a blank wall. "What the—"

"It only comes a few times a day," Leo said.

Violet stomped her foot angrily. "Well, I'm not waiting here for it to come back. There has to be some other way out of here."

Mike's eyes shifted to the river. When Agustus had fallen into the river, the pipes had transported him somewhere else. Could they do the same? The idea seemed crazy. Just crazy enough to work.

Veruca's eyes followed Mike's gaze and immediately caught on. "You're mental if you think I'm going to try that."

"Try what?"

"He wants us to go through the pipes!"

Augustus let out a yelp that sounded like a puppy that was just stepped on. "_Nein! Nei wieder!"_

"Oh come, you big babies. Are you afraid of a little chocolate? What about you?" she pointed to Leo. Are you coming?"

Vladik shook his head. "Nyet," he squeaked.

"Fine. Come on, Mike. I'm not afraid. Let's go! Maybe if you morons are lucky, we'll come back for you." She walked over to the river and turned around. "Are you coming?" she demanded.

Mike nodded. It was too late to back out now. It had been his idea, after all. Slowly, he followed Beauregard, glancing back only once to see the others watching him expectantly.

"Viel Glück, meine Freunde," Augustus whispered quietly.

Had Mike spoken German, he would have surely done a double take. For Augustus had said, "Good luck, my friends."

* * *

Mike held his breath and jumped into the liquid chocolate. His first thought: it was warm. Mike had assumed it would be cold, like water. Second discovery: chocolate was hard to swim through. Luckily, Mike didn't have to do much work, the suction did most of it for him, pulling him and Violet into the tubes where they were able to breathe once again. It was then Mike began to have second thoughts on his plan. Oh well, too late now.

"Don't eat any," he warned Violet. "It's poisonous."

"I wasn't going to, you idiot!" she spat back.

The pipes were a tight squeeze, but both were able to manage with reasonable ease. Their bodies were small enough to slide through, but big enough to block the chocolate behind them and allow for breathing room in their little air pockets. Where the air was coming from, Mike had no idea. Had Wonka anticipated Gloop's downfall and added a whole ventilation system to prepare for the occasion?

There was a roaring noise in the distance. Mike was just able to make it out at first, but slowly it grew louder.

"Hey, Mike," Violet said. "Do you remember where this pipe leads to?"

"No . . ." was his initial response. Why should he?

Wait a minute . . . Oh, shit! "THE FUDGE BOILER!"

* * *

**A while back, one of my reviewers suggested that I do something with the fake golden ticket winner. In the old movie, he was from Paraguay, and the new one was Russia. I've also gotten some requests for new characters. I do realize that there are many readers who dislike original characters and I will try my best not to make Vladik too annoying. He will be playing a mild to moderate part in the story. If anyone has any suggestions about him, please let me know. **

**I'm thinking of incorporating of more aspects of the Gene Wilder Willy Wonka. If anybody has any ideas, let me know.**

**And, as always, please review.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Anna Bliss aka Ivy B: Thank you so much!**

**AWESOME: It was intentional, and no problem at all. Thank you for reviewing. **

**The Liar and the Honest: A few days late, but I guess you could consider it a late present. **

* * *

**I**n retrospect, perhaps Mike should have anticipated this. He wasn't sure why it came as such a surprise. Of COURSE the chocolate river led to the fudge boiler. How could he have possibly missed that? Now he was going to die because of his stupid mistake! (Oh, yeah, and Violet, too.)

Even from several hundred feet away, Mike could feel the heat on his face. He had seconds to think his way out of this predicament. Augustus had only survived because there had been Oompa Loompas to catch him on the other end. They would not be so lucky.

Yet, despite the obvious tense situation, Violet was able to keep her cool. "Alright, what now, genius?"

"Let think."

"You better think quickly!"

"Shut up!" But it true. He couldn't afford to waste any time. Every second counted. Literally.

Unfortunately for Mike, he had overestimated the time they had left. Suddenly, he and Violet were thrown into a hellhole of boiling chocolate.

The fudge was even thicker and harder to swim through than the river. It clung to Mike skin and weighed him down. The Fudge was warm, but not hot. So it must have been left to cool. This was a huge relief. Now came the issue of getting out.

Mike groped blindly in an attempt to find some sort of wall to grab on to. He couldn't find one. Beginning, to panic, Mike had to force himself to remain calm. _Okay, Mike. You've gotten yourself out of worse messed than this. You can figure this out. Just use logic and –_

A strong hand grabbed Mike by his shirt collar and pulled him out of the fudge. The hand belonged to Violet Beauregard. That meant it was at least the second time that day he was saved by a girl. _Damn it._

Mike coughed and spluttered, trying to breathe normally.

"You're pathetic," Violet said, wiping the chocolate off of her clothes. Her eyes widened. "SKIPPY!" Violet jumped back into the fudge. She swam and dug and called for the ferret without a response. Violet climbed out and began to cry.

"Yeah, and I'M pathetic," Mike mumbled. Violet punched him.

"It's all your fault!" she said, pointing her finger accusingly at Mike.

"How is it my fault that your stupid ferret is dead? He probably drowned back in the river."

Another punch. "He's not stupid! You didn't remind me! Now he's gone and it's all your fault!" Violet did an angry karate-style kick at the fudge container. The giant tin bowl shuddered. Violet kicked it again, making a significant dent.

Mike tried to pull her away, insisting that the Oompa Loompas would return in no time, but she persisted her kicking and screaming. The more he persisted, the more violent she grew, at one point going as far as trying to bite him.

"Fine," he said, throwing up his hands in surrender. "Stay here if you want. See if I care." And he really didn't. Not in the least. If she wanted to be stupid, he would let her. He could fair just fine on his own.

"Don't you dare!" she said, her eyes glowing like a predatory cat. "You're helpless without me."

Mike laughed, albeit a bit uneasily. "You honestly think that? Look at yourself! You're crying over a stupid rodent."

"I'm not crying and it's a WEASEL!"

"Weasel. Rodent. Ferret. Squirrel. I don't care either way. Come if you want, or stay here. Just don't come crying to me when they turn you into a grapefruit or whatever."

To his surprise, she shut up and nodded. "Let's go."

* * *

The rooms they walked through seemed to grow stranger at every turn. Whether it be pink sheep, lemonade-filled swimming pools or strawberry juice water pistols, Mike did his best to pay them little attention. The last thing he needed was a distraction.

"Hey, Violet," Mike said, "How are we going to get back for the others?"

"The others?" she laughed. "I'd almost forgotten about them. What about the others? It's not my fault that they were too chicken to go into the chocolate river. Let them find their own way back."

"But . . . " he turned around and stared back hesitantly. Violet was right. Mike didn't know why he should care. It felt dishonorable to just leave them. "But we said we'd go back for them."

Violet snorted. "I never said that. I said if they were lucky. Now, come on."

It seemed that she had grown even colder after the death of her ferret. On the bright side, at least she wasn't kicking him anymore.

* * *

"What's your middle name?"

"Why do you care?"

Mike shrugged. "I'm trying to start a conversation. We've been walking for hours and it's boring as hell. So what is it? Abigail? Addison? Amanda?"

"No. No. And no. It's Victoire."

"Victor? Isn't that a boy name?"

She scoffed at his obvious stupidity. "Victoire, dummy. It's French."

Mike thought for a few moments, letting the words sink in. It didn't make any sense. "It doesn't begin with an A?"

"No, Mike. It's a silent A. Seriously? Where do you even get your ideas?"

"The wall. The chocolate one, I mean. Veruca and I – I mean, it was one of the first things we saw. Augustus had eaten through it, hadn't he? And it was you who wrote VAB on the wall."

"Me? It was there when I came. I though maybe it stood for 'Veruca and' something. At least that's what I figured after we met up with you guys. But the answer's pretty obvious, isn't it?"

" . . . No."

"Vlady? Vladik Alexeyich Belinsky." She paused, then added, "_duh."_

"Oh." Well now he felt stupid. "Yeah, I knew that."

"Of course you did."

"I - -" Mile stopped. "Do you hear that?" There was a muffled screaming sound. It sounded vaguely familiar. "Come on."

"No! We can't afford to get distracted, Mike."

"Just give me one second." He ducked into a room, fairly certain that he was out of his mind. What was he doing? Why was he so drawn to the call? Mike knew that what he was dong was illogical, but he couldn't help but feel pulled in.

They stopped once the voice was loud enough to understand.

"Hello? Can anyone hear me? Get me out of here!" It was high pitched and small, unlike the voice of anyone Mike was sure he knew. Still, the feeling of familiarity was unshakable.

"It's in here," Violet said.

He followed her into a room which was, oddly, devoid of the usual gaudy and meretricious decoration found in Wonka's rooms. In fact, it was pure white and featureless, save for a single device that looked like a giant mirror. On top of the mirror said the words: Parallel Dimension-ifier. It didn't take a genius to understand what it did.

A machine that took people to different parallel universes? The idea seemed farfetched, even for Wonka. He would have to create a wormhole through space and time . . . possibilities would be endless. No doubt he probably used it for some stupid candy contraption.

"Is anyone there?" the voice called. "Help me! Help me!"

"Mike, I think it's coming from inside the—"

"I know." _I should walk away,_ he thought. _I should walk away and forget all about this room._ But he couldn't. How could he possibly miss an opportunity like this? Interdimensional travel, it was the stuff of science fiction. Now it wasn't even about the voice.

Violet seemed to understand what he was thinking and looked worriedly at the device. "We should go. . . "

No doubt there was some sort of terrible after effect from the machine, but at this point, just about anything was worth it. To think, he could be the first person to travel to alternate dimensions. What a college thesis that would be!

"I'm going in," he said.

"You're an idiot."

He paid her no attention. Mike put his hand on the device. Surprisingly, it went right through. He wiggled his fingers. "Hey, Violet, look! I'm in two dimensions at once!"

"Mike, stop it now!"

Mike ignored her. Ducking to be sure not to hit his head, Mike stepped into the machine. It felt like walking through a waterfall, only without getting wet. A weird feeling, but Mike didn't have time to dwell on it.

The room he was in, like the other, was almost entirely white and was quite similar to the one here was in before, which would explain why he mistook it for a mirror at first.

A bench was off to the side with a lady passed out on it. She wore some sort of white jumpsuit and did not wake up when Mike called out.

"Hello? Please help me! I can't get out!"

"Where are you?"

The voice stopped, seeming surprised that someone had actually replied. "In here. It's dark. I can't . . . oh, get me out!"

Mike was running out of patience. "I can't get you out if I don't know where you are."

"In the purse!"

Purse? Mike looked down and, sure enough, there was a purse on the floor near the unconscious woman, probably hers. If whoever was calling him was inside the purse, then Mike wasn't so sure he wanted to let him out. What if it was a trap? The possibility seemed more than likely. Plus, the lady was kind of starting to freak him out.

"How big are you?"

"Four foot five. I don't know how big I am now."

"Sorry?"

"You see, there was this thing . . . it's kind of a long story. Just get me out of here!" The voice started screaming and Mike was pretty sure he saw the sides of the purse move, as if he were pounding on them. "Let me out!"

"Are you an Oompa Loompa?"

"No," he laughed. "How would an Oompa Loompa fit in here, anyway?"  
Mike examined the purse. An Oompa Loompa could probably fit in their, although it would be somewhat of a stretch. Maybe later he would experiment on one himself.

"Please. I'll . . . I'll do anything. We could be partners. Equals. I don't know what they're going to do to me. Please, just let me out! Please! I need to watch _The Wild Wild West _and _The Adventure of Jim Bowie_ and . . . and _Boots and Saddles_."

Wow. "If I let you out, will you shut the hell up!"

"Yes!"

"Fine." Careful not to wake the sleeping woman, even though that seemed doubtful, Mike tiptoes over to the bag, putting his hand inside somewhat tentively. When he felt something grad onto it, Mike lifted it out. He nearly screamed. There was a boy in his hand, no more than three inches tall!

"Thanks, Partner!" he said happily. There was a slight southern accent in his voice.

"How . . . how old are you?"

"Ten. I'll be eleven in three weeks. The year after that, Pa's getting me a real gun. You?"

" . . . Fourteen. Let me guess, you tried Wonka Vision?" He wondered if Willy was letting other kids into the factory again. Maybe he had grown tired of Charlie.

"You bet! Pretty great stuff, right?"

Despite the kid's annoyingness, Mike couldn't help but feel kind of bad for him. He had no idea what was to come and soon he would be in the taffy stretcher like him. The thought of someone going through that when it could possibly be avoided was just sickening.

He took a close look at the kid. Like the woman, he wore a white jumpsuit with a hood that covered his head. A pair of thick sunglasses were propped on top, presumably for the same eye protection the ones he wore granted him in the TV Room. Once again, he wondered what the kid was doing here. He had a sneaking suspicion, but it seemed to farfetched to be real. Still, he decided to make sure.

"Hey, kid," he said. "What's your name?"

"Mike. Mike Teavee."

* * *

**Honestly, I debating taking this turn because it presented a few issues. If you like this incorporation, be sure to let me know. If not, I'll move on as quickly as possible.**

**Suggestions, as always are welcome. **


	12. Chapter 12

**Thank you to Paint Splat, Anna Bliss aka Ivy B, Anna_Banna, The Liar And Honest, Katherine Mortez, The_Disnerd, AWESOME, Fruktus1997, Blueberry_Bush_0711, and *catches breath* Peter_1312 for reviewing. You guys are awesome! **

**Katherine Mortez: Cool! *High five***

**The_Disnerd: I know, it's tragic. Let us all have a moment of silence in his memory.**

**Peter_1312: Actually, it's interesting you mentioned that because if you noticed the other kids never come out of the factory like they do in the newer movie and book. I think that leaves people more open to interpretation. I personally always thought they just died, but . . . **

**Okay, here's the newest chapter. I just finished finals and now have a huge weight lifted off of my shoulders. Hopefully my updates will come quicker and more consistently. I thank you all for your patience, now enjoy!**

* * *

**M**ike stared at the kid. The kid stared back. Mike blinked. The kid blinked. This went on for an embarrassingly long amount of time. Finally, Mike broke the silence.

"Who told you my name?" he asked the kid. It was a desperate attempt to disprove his suspicions. How would it even come up in alternate universe conversation. The conclusion was obvious, but Mike refused to acknowledge it. How could he? The idea was terrifying. The very thought of someone as unbearable as that kid could be him in an alternate dimension seemed like something from a nightmare. A nightmare. That's what it had to be, right? Soon his mother would wake him up and take him to see yet another incompetent psychologist. He inwardly groaned. How could he have not thought of this sooner? It was so blatantly obvious that it was embarrassing.

"What are you thinking?" Little Mike asked.

"I'm thinking how someone like you could possibly be me."

"Pardon?"

"My name is Mike Teavee also. Two years ago I was shrunk in Wonka vision and stretched out in the taffy puller."

"T-Taffy puller? Nobody ever said anything about that!" the little boy started to panic. "Did it . . . did it hurt?"

"Like hell it did." He studied the boy for a moment. "Are you sure that you're me? You seem a bit wimpy. Maybe Charlie?"

Bucket? No, I'm not him. Cool kid, though. Much better than the others, anyway. He was kind of fun to talk to and stuff."

Mike couldn't believe his ears. Jesus, he was starting to really hate himself! "Are you sure this isn't a dream?"

Little Mike had already appeared to have lost his interest. "Can you wake up my mom and tell her that I want to go home? There's a new episode of—"

"Damn, kid. Why don't you just record it?"

"Its already recorded—well, I mean unless it's happening live like on the news. The news is usually boring, although they sometimes chase criminals and then there's shooting which is fun to watch."

"No, I mean record the show ahead of time so you can watch it later."

Little Mike looked as if he had just won the lottery. "I can do that?"

"Of course you can. It's the easiest thing in the world. Are you, like, retarded or something?"

Little Mike pouted. " . . . No."

"Okay, then stop acting so stupid. Look, I have somewhere to be. Don't tell anyone about anything or it could, like, rip the time fabric in space or something. Keep quiet. Got it?" Little Mike nodded. "Good."

"Where are you going?"

Mike really did not feel like explaining his revenge plan to himself. "It's none of your business."

"Can I go too?"

Mike snorted. "Not a chance," was his instantaneous reply. "I already have one moron to look after. The last thing I need is—"

"Please take me with you!" I kid had at this point seemed to abandon all dignity and was ready to resort to begging his alternate self. That meant he either genuinely wanted to go with him, or was just really terrified of what Wonka had in store for him. "I'm real helpful. I promise I'll be good. I won't shoot my gun or anything!"

"Jeez kid, where are you from? The 1800s? Who on earth gives their kid a gun anymore? I mean, my parents never gave _me_ one. And not for a lack of trying, I might add." Did that mean that they had different parents in the different universes?

"Marble Falls, Arizona. And it's not a real gun. I'm getting a colt .47 when I turn twelve."

_Oh, yeah,_ Mike remembered. He'd mentioned that earlier. Mike hadn't really taken him seriously. At least the kid shared his passion for violence. That was something, he supposed. A small condolence. Miniscule. Microscopic. Diminutive. Infinitesimal. Lilliputian.

The woman began to stir in her sleep.

Mike tried one last time to get the kid off his back. "Your mom will worry about you if she wakes up and you're gone."

He snorted. "I don't need her. On TV, the cowboys never have moms."

"WRONG, SIR. WRONG!" Was it just him, or did that sound like the guy from Young Frankenstein. He turned to his counterpart. "Did you hear that?"

Little Mike nodded fearfully. "It's Wonka!"

No further words needed to be exchanged. The two Mikes ran into the portal without a seconds thought.

They exited into a room that Mike found all too familiar. The bright colors, the table, straps, the crank and pulleys. Still, there was something different about it. "GODDAMMIT!" he shouted, kicking the wall and nearly dropping 1971 Mike in the process.

"Hey, watch it!" he complained. 1971 Mike looked around. "Is this where you're from?"

"No. No, I've never been here before. I think we're in another parallel universe."

Little Mike rolled his eyes. "How'd you manage to miss that?"

"Shut up, I'm thinking." His eyes surveyed the room. Mike feared that he might blackout and have another flashback, but he couldn't afford to think of that now. (Come to think of it, none of this made sense. Why would the alternate dimension portal be in the same room as the taffy puller. Was it intentional?)

1971 Mike seemed to pick up on the tension. "That's the taffy puller, ain't it?"

"Don't –don't say that word, god dammit!"

There was a pause. Then . . . "TAFFY PULLER! TAFFY PULLER! TAFFY PULLER!"

"Hey!" A tiny figure was bound up by the ropes in the alternate taffy stretch. "Hey, don't come any closer. I'm warning you, I'm packing heat. I've got myself eighteen bean-shooters and I'm not afraid to clip you! You better blow or you'll be in the Chicago Overcoat before the meat wagon even gets here!"

"Oh god, please tell them that's not who I think it is."

"Why? Who do you think it is?"

Mike didn't have time for this, he ran back across the room to the portal, the last thing he needed was yet another self from another dimension to annoy the hell out of him.

"Wait!" Little Mike screamed. "We're not really going to leave him there, are we?"

"You bet we are. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't drop off you here as well?"

"It wouldn't be noble." His mini twentieth century counterpart said.

Mike was not impressed. "Seriously? That's the best you've got? How are you even . . . you know what? Never mind. Let's just go."

"But . . . but won't—"

Suddenly, there was a loud, high-pitched scream from the other side of the room that followed a familiar cranking sound. Mike froze. No, he couldn't not now. Not in front of himself . . . himselves.

_"Let's go, Son. Let's go home and play some video games."_

_ Even after regaining consciousness, the pain was unbearable. It took Mike a while to put together his thoughts and few more to put together his words coherently. "Dad . . . I can't . . . I can't walk." _

_ His father seemed to contemplate this for a moment. Finally, he said, "Hold still."_

_ "Dad . . . where are . . . where are Oompa Loompas?"_

_ "Never you mind that, Mike. Just hold still." His father pushed down on Mike's shoulder, before he had a chance to ask his dad what he was doing, Mike heard a loud POP, followed by extreme pain in the area. _

_ "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" _

_ Mr. Teavee grimaced. "I'm sorry. I know it hurts. Please, hold on for just a few more minutes."_

_ "Hey, what are you –AHHH! SHIT!" _

_ It seemed that his father was nearly in tears now, and at this point Mike had figured out what the man was doing. The taffy puller must have dislocated his bones. Oh god, how many more would his father have to fix? _

_ Mike let out a stream of swearwords as his father applied pressure to a hip. When doing so, Mr. Teavee pushed up the corner of his shirt and Mike was able to get a glimpse of a terrifying sight: stretch marks. They looked like the kind one would find on a pregnant woman, only taken to horrifyingly mammoth proportions. His skin looked like a ripped sweater, held together only by a few strands. He had nearly been torn in half by the machine. _

"What are you looking at?"_ his father asked, turning his head in the direction of his son's. "Stop, Mike. I know it seems bad, but we'll get you to a doctor as soon as you can walk out of here. Just . . . try not to look at it, okay?"_

_ Mike didn't respond. He couldn't bring himself to look away from the gory sight. The pain was still there, but it was more of an intense burn than unbearable agony. That is, until, he heard another crack. There was a sound of a high-pitched scream, Mike wasn't sure if it was coming from him or not._

"What's wrong with you?"

_ "What's wrong with me? You're jumping on my freaking ribs."_

"Huh?"

_ Mike groaned in pain, no longer possessing the energy required to cry out._

"I ain't doing nothing to your ribs! Snap out of it, partner."

Mike felt a tiny, but sharp poke at his cheek. What the . . . ? Little Mike was banging his knuckles on his face. Mike was lying on the floor of the alternate-dimension taffy stretcher.

Oh no . . . he didn't . . . _damn it_. What was wrong with him? Why did he keep doing this?

"Oh, good. You're up. Wow, you're an odd stick, ain't ya? Now, come. Pony up."

Mike didn't know what that meant. He supposed it was some sort of stupid cowboy slang that the kid had heard in a movie or something. He must have come from some really old-fashioned town in, like, Texas, or something. Honestly, who even talked like that anymore?

"Stop talking like that, will you?"

"Like what? Look, man, I'm gettin' all over-ish about this place," he said, jerking his head to his gangster counterpart. "I say we pull in our horns and get outta here while we can."

"Seriously, dude. I'm going to punch you."

"Is that a bluff or do you mean it for real play?"

There was a loud scream from the taffy puller. Mike grimaced.

"Wait, maybe we can strike a deal? How about it? You know that I was only kidding before. The stuff about the guns? Pure bulk. Don't leave me here! It's starting to hurt! No, don't go!" there was another cry of pain and Mike was pretty sure that he heard a distinct CRACK of a bone being dislocated. He couldn't stand much more of this.

Mike didn't answer. He picked up the kid and held him in a loose fist. He peeked through the alternate dimension-ifier, worried that he and his counterpart might end up traveling to yet ANOTHER universe where he was obsessed with chick-flicks or something.

Fortunately, one peek through the machine answered his concerns. That's because standing there, looking pissed as ever, was none other than Violet Victoire Beauregard.

Little Mike peaked out from between his fingers. "Who's that?" he asked. Mike responded by closing his fist tighter, so that he was just barely giving the boy enough oxygen.

"I swear to god, I am going to— what the hell do you have in your hand?"

Mike grinned. "Violet, this is Mike Jr., or . . . well, something of the nature. I haven't decided what to call him yet."

"Hey, who're you calling Junior?" came the muffled voice from his hand.

"What did you do?" she groaned.

"None of your business."

"Actually, I think it is my business. Whether you like or not, Teavee, we're tied in this together. You can't just randomly go off into other dimensions or whatever and kidnap different yous," she glanced at Mike's hand. "Can he even breathe in there?" her voice was casually curious, rather than concerned for the boy's well being.

"Yeah. At least I think so. Hey, cowboy, can you breathe?"

"Barely!"

"See? He's fine!"

"Can I see him?" Violet asked. Before Mike had a chance to respond, she ripped the tiny boy from his hand.

1971 Mike looked up. "Wow. You look absolutely nothing like Beauregard." He paused. "And aren't you supposed to be a blueberry or something?"

Violet made a growling noise from the back of her throat. "Listen, Buddy, if you say that word again, I'm going to squash you like a bug. Understand?" he nodded vigorously.

"Wow," little Mike mumbled. "You guys sure have a lot of rules. Maybe I shouldn't talk at all!"

"Yes," said Mike, "that would actually be preferable."

"Ugh, I don't have time for this. Do what you want with the little freak, I honestly don't care. But we have to keep going and find a way out of here."

"Not without us, you aren't."

The trio turned around. Standing there, covered from head to toe in chocolate fudge was Vladik Belinsky, Augustus Gloop, and Veruca Salt.

Vlady and Augustus beamed joyfully at the sight of their friends. Veruca, meanwhile, appeared less than thrilled.

"You're paying for my dry-cleaning!"

* * *

**That was actually quite fun to write. I thought a three-way crossover would be a bit much, so book Mike Teavee only makes a cameo appearance . . . or whatever you call a cameo appearance in a book/fanfiction/etc. **

**Anyway, suggestions are always helpful, but I'm sure you already know that. **

**Hopefully you had as much fun reading this as I did writing. Please review!**


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